


i just want you (up against me)

by freefallvertigo



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angry Sex, BDSM, Denial of Feelings, F/F, Jealousy, PWP, Rough Sex, Strap-Ons, Telepathy, but mostly shagging lol, friends with benefits to lovers ?? if that’s a thing, pining? I guess, top!13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24338872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freefallvertigo/pseuds/freefallvertigo
Summary: "Don't be gentle."
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 53
Kudos: 186
Collections: Sloshed Saturday





	1. it’s not that deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was EXTREMELY rushed i made it 4 tha discord pleathe don't get ur hopes up luvs x
> 
> my prompt was "deep"

_It’s not that deep._

That’s what Yaz told herself. Over and over and over again. It’s what she told herself the first time and it’s what she was telling herself now, months later, leaning over the desk in the Doctor’s bedroom with her head between the Doctor’s thighs and her fingers grafting inside her.

It wasn’t that she needed the reminder; it wasn’t that, whenever the Doctor pinned Yaz to the wall or tore off her clothes or groaned her name in the clutches of ecstasy, she found herself falling a little bit further for her. Of course not. It was a preemptive measure. Surely, if she clung to that mantra, she’d be able to avoid developing feelings. A lack of feelings meant nothing could hurt them.

Except, the Doctor was a _picture_ right now - naked atop the desk with the heels of her feet buried into Yaz’s back and her head tilted so far back Yaz could follow the map of her veins across the strain of her throat. She gripped Yaz’s hair. The measure of pain in her scalp was like a lighter to a fuse. She picked up the already tenacious pace of her tongue and fingers and, when she added a third finger, the Doctor’s body was more than accommodating.

“ _Fuck_ , Yaz,” rasped the Doctor.

It had been Yaz’s idea, really. The first time they hooked up (because that’s all this was, remember?), Yaz suggested it as a joke. The Doctor had been going through a lot; she was tense and moody and withdrawn, and Yaz made a facetious remark about how she needed to get laid. When the Doctor asked if Yaz was offering, she didn’t think she was being serious, and so she didn’t think the Doctor would take it seriously when she bit back with a, ‘ _yeah, sure_.’

Not until the Doctor had her flat against a crystal column with a hand between her thighs.

Yaz had come undone embarrassingly fast that day. The Doctor, too. So, they kept at it, and Yaz had herself convinced she was just helping out a friend and earning herself the occasional mind blowing orgasm for her troubles. Certainly, that was all it was for the Doctor.

And that was fine.

That was good.

“ _Yaz_ — fuck, Yaz — I’m so close,” the Doctor panted, eyes squeezed shut and hand fisted so tightly in Yaz’s hair that she winced against the Doctor and her tongue faltered, if only for a fraction of a second. “ _God_ — keep going, keep going.”

This was always Yaz’s favourite part.

Working the Doctor up to her zenith; riding her to the crest of her ruinous wave. She slammed her fingers inside her and lapped at the throbbing bundle of nerves at her tongue with manic fervor and she watched the Doctor’s face the whole time. She was devastating when she came. As always.

The Doctor’s every muscle seized up and she surged forwards, hips almost arching off the desk but for Yaz’s forearm holding her down. She moaned: throaty, deep, primal. Yaz’s favourite song in the universe. So swept up in a bliss that wasn’t her own to claim was she, she forgot to slow down; forgot to relent. Before she knew it, she was carrying the Doctor through a second successive orgasm and only then, when a trembling Doctor had to all but push her away from her oversensitive nerves, did Yaz ease up.

“Christ, y’really went for that.”

“Sorry,” muttered Yaz, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

The Doctor laughed. “Sorry? Don’t apologise for that, Yaz.”

Yaz took a dizzy step backwards but, before she could get very far, the Doctor sat up, dragged her back in by the collar of her shirt, and crashed clumsily into her mouth. Yaz hated the kissing. Don’t misunderstand - the Doctor was a phenomenal kisser; the best Yaz’s lips had ever tasted. Only, it felt too intimate a gesture for such a casual fling. The brushing of tongues, the exchange of saliva, the Doctor’s heady breath mingling with her own. Sometimes, it was a little much.

The Doctor pulled back and, now that the brume of rapture had cleared from her eyes, something else had taken its place. Something heavy. She looked at Yaz and Yaz felt weighted down by the gravity scored onto the Doctor’s face. Intoxicated by her sudden sobriety. If Yaz didn’t know better, she’d say she was looking at her like—

But no.

It wasn’t that deep.

The Doctor slipped off the desk and, with a gentle palm at Yaz’s chest, shoved her back towards the bed. “Take your clothes off,” she said in a low, dark tone, “and get on the bed. I’ll be right back.”

Yaz obliged eagerly as the Doctor disappeared into the bigger-on-the-inside closet. By the time she returned, Yaz’s clothes were in a heap on the floor and she was lying naked on top of the sheets. Her eyes fell from the Doctor’s face to her hips. She’d strapped into a toy; black silicone glistening with the lube she was stroking onto herself. Yaz’s throat tightened when the Doctor approached. The Doctor looked Yaz’s bare body up and down with no small quantum of lechery.

She climbed on top of Yaz and cupped her chin. “Y’ready to take me, Yaz?”

Yaz could only nod dumbly.

“Yeah?” The Doctor parted Yaz’s thighs and ran two fingers experimentally through her folds. When they came away sticky and wet, the Doctor grinned sinfully. Yaz might have blushed, but the Doctor was used to this by now. She knew how much it worked her up to work the Doctor up. “Tell me y’want it.”

“I want you,” Yaz said, unthinking.

If the Doctor noticed Yaz’s slip up, she didn’t let on past a fleeting, inscrutable expression that didn’t linger long enough for Yaz to name. She repositioned herself and lined the toy up against her, using her free hand to hike Yaz’s leg up around her hip. Sparing one last glance at Yaz’s face, only to find her keenly awaiting her next move, the Doctor pressed into her. As she pushed the toy in through burning heat, she ducked her head to one of Yaz’s breasts and took a pebbled nipple into her mouth.

Yaz cursed. The joint sensations of both the Doctor’s warm tongue pirouetting around Yaz’s nipple and her walls burning, welcoming, stretching around the toy easing into her had her pulse skyrocketing. When it was sheathed inside her almost to the hilt, the Doctor hovered over her face and tucked a strand of hair out of her face delicately.

“Don’t,” said Yaz.

The Doctor froze. “What? Did I hurt—”

“Don’t be gentle.”

Tenderness was another thing she couldn’t stand. Not from the Doctor. It hurt more than it helped, and Yaz refused to acknowledge why. The Doctor’s hand fell from Yaz’s face and she nodded, so Yaz took the Doctor’s fingers and led them to her throat. There. Much better.

Taking the hint, the Doctor tightened her grip. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Yaz wheezed around her hand.

The Doctor slid the toy almost all the way out and then drove it right back inside her. Yaz let slip a guttural moan and the Doctor - forehead pressed to Yaz’s and open mouth suspended above hers - swallowed it whole. She worked up to a brutal pace in no time and the headboard rammed against the wall and when the Doctor swapped the hand at her throat with her lips and teeth Yaz felt another rush of arousal pooling between her legs and coating the toy.

“ _Fuck_.”

“How do I feel?” grunted the Doctor, pinning Yaz’s wrists to the bed. “Hm?”

“You feel so fucking good,” lauded Yaz hazily. “ _Oh_ — right there, right there!”

“Here?” Angling herself according to Yaz’s keen reception, the Doctor located that sweetest spot inside of her and then dropped two fingers to her clit - because Yaz was close. They both could tell. She was pounding into her relentlessly, now. “C’mon, Yaz. Be a good girl and come for me, yeah? Come on. Come.”

As if on command, Yaz came.

Moaning the Doctor’s name, she clenched around the toy and fluttered against rapid fingers. Yaz’s body might well have been spineless for the way she arched off the bed. The Doctor pinned her back down by her hips and rode her through it, unabating. When Yaz slumped at last, breathing heavily and head spinning, the Doctor slowed to a stop and then pulled out. She tossed the lubricious toy onto the floorboards and collapsed beside Yaz.

“Good?” she asked, turning her head to gauge Yaz.

Yaz nodded, chest heaving. “Amazing.”

When she’d at last recovered, Yaz sat up and made to leave - as was custom. They didn’t do sleepovers. Except, as she was about to swing her legs over the side of the bed, she felt the Doctor’s hand seek out her own and stop her short. Yaz turned to her, brows stitched into a confused frown.

“Y’could always stay,” suggested the Doctor quietly.

“What — sleep here?”

“If y’want,” shrugged the Doctor. When Yaz hesitated, she rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t mean anythin’, Yaz. It’s just sleep. I could use the company, is all.”

Yaz knew she shouldn’t. That was too tender; too real. But she was exhausted, and the Doctor was asking, and her bed was so comfortable. It had nothing to do with the way it felt to have the Doctor’s arms wind around her ribs and her chin nestling against the crook of her neck. Nothing at all.

Yaz stayed.

Cocooned in the Doctor’s arms, she drifted to sleep, and a faint, dreamlike whisper in her ear followed her into the depths of oblivion and coloured her dreams golden yellow.

“Yasmin Khan,” sighed the achingly affectionate voice, “I love you — deeply.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr: freefallthirteen


	2. peach lip gloss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so apparently i'm making this a multi-chap now lkfjkskdm i hate myself so much anyway this one's quite intense so uh. be warned.

A dream, is all it was. 

That’s what Yaz told herself when she woke up the morning after their sleepover with four words stuck fast to her brain like gum to the bottom of a shoe. _I love you — deeply_. And it was easy to believe, too, when she woke up alone; when the Doctor made no efforts at communicating such a sentiment when she was conscious. So, she scraped off that old gum and deposited it somewhere forgotten — that the soles of her shoes wouldn’t stick and she might walk freely away from such a ridiculous notion as the Doctor harboring secret feelings for her. 

They carried on as normal. As two friends who occasionally worked off pent up tension and their more exasperating frustrations together. No feelings, no attachments, no problem. 

For the most part.

Yaz had been on a few dates, figuring it was time to introduce herself to the dating scene. The Doctor scratched one particular itch, but sometimes Yaz wished she had someone who wanted to do more than just screw her. She hadn’t asked any of them back out for second dates, yet. None of them really felt right. They didn’t fit. 

She knew, as she let this particular woman walk her home from their date, that she wasn’t going to ask her back out. She was pretty, and she was clearly into Yaz, but Yaz’s heart wasn’t really in it. Still — her family was away. She had a free flat. Why not have some fun? 

Only, as they approached her complex, she spotted the TARDIS parked on the street corner and frowned. It wasn’t their night. The Doctor wasn’t due until tomorrow.

Her date, failing to notice Yaz’s divided attention, thanked Yaz for a lovely evening and kissed her. Yaz kissed her back, but she didn’t close her eyes; didn’t tear them away from the TARDIS, in fact. She wondered if the Doctor was watching. That thought, for reasons unknown, set something off inside Yaz. Something a little twisted. She backed the girl up to the lamppost and kissed her back with fervor; her mouth sticky with lipgloss and alcohol. 

And then she stopped. “Sorry, I’d invite you in, but I’ve got a full house,” she lied. “I’ll call you.” Another lie. After getting her into a taxi, following another kiss goodnight, Yaz crossed the street towards the TARDIS. The door opened for her and when she stepped inside, she found the Doctor bent over the console in front of the monitor. The screen was dark, but Yaz thought she could make out the glow still fading — as if it had only just been switched off. Yaz crossed the walkway towards her.

“Doctor?”

“Yaz? Oh! Didn’t see you there,” said the Doctor, spinning around to face her, but the overly casual tone of her voice suggested otherwise. 

“Why are you here? You’re a day early.”

The Doctor cleared her throat. “Oh, uh, just parked meself down to get some repairs done overnight. Thought I’d add some extra reinforcements to the dimensional dams — maybe install a second floor pool. Y’don’t think eight swimming pools is too many, do you?” Her voice came out a couple of notches higher than usual; the strain to her nonchalant facade audible. “How’s your evenin’ been, anyway? Get up to much?”

“Actually,” began Yaz, pretending not to notice the way the Doctor’s pupils flitted briefly across at her amidst pretending to be engrossed in the exposed wiring of a console panel, “I just came back from a date.” 

“Oh?” One of the wires zapped the Doctor and she yanked her hand back, sucking the tip of her finger and eyeing Yaz. “So, um, did it go well?”

Yaz approached the Doctor, the sound of her slow footsteps bouncing between the crystal columns. “Dunno,” she shrugged. “What do you think?”

“What?”

“You were watching, right?” Yaz goaded, nodding her head towards the monitor. The Doctor looked caught; looked like she was about to deny it. Yaz pressed on, stopping just a few short inches from the Doctor. “Hell of a kiss, weren’t it? D’you think she were into me?” 

The Doctor searched Yaz’s face; the wicked glint of mischief in her eye like a blade catching the moonlight. Her offhand mask crumbled, replaced instead with something far more severe. “I think,” she said, taking a step closer of her own, “you sent her packing.”

“Maybe I were tired,” teased Yaz.

“Are you?”

Yaz shrugged. “Not really,” she admitted. Then, with a smirk, “but I think you’re jealous.” 

“Why would I be jealous?” asked the Doctor, though her face had gone dark and her voice had a low, dangerous cadence to it that only served to egg Yaz on. 

“C’mon, Doctor,” she pushed, brushing invisible dust from the shoulder of the Doctor’s jumper and letting her hand linger, “you don’t really strike me as the type of person who likes to share their toys.” 

At that last word, a strange look passed over the Doctor’s face and for a moment it looked like she might be about to voice her disapproval or set the record straight. In a heartbeat, said look was gone. The Doctor moulded her expression into one of restrained anger. The kind that wasn’t explosive, but calculated. The kind Yaz craved. 

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, hooking her fingers through Yaz’s belt loops and tugging her close. She leaned in to speak right into Yaz’s ear: breathy, low, exhilarating. “Maybe it did make my blood boil a little bit. Maybe it made me wanna drag you in here—” she backed Yaz up against the console— “wrap my hand around your neck—” loosely, she curled her fingers around Yaz’s throat— “and make you sorry you let anybody else touch what isn’t theirs.” 

The Doctor parted Yaz’s feet with her boots and jammed a thigh between her legs. She applied the most lenient pressure to Yaz’s throat and curled her lip, teeth bared in a display of wrath she usually only reserved for her most despicable foes. She hovered over Yaz’s mouth but didn’t kiss her; only stared her down with glacial eyes like she didn’t know how to direct her anger without hurting her. 

“Do it,” rasped Yaz — rabid pulse no doubt thrumming against the Doctor’s fingers.

“Do what?”

“Whatever you want.” 

The Doctor let go of Yaz’s throat, but Yaz didn’t even have the chance to suck in a breath before the Doctor cupped the back of her thighs and lifted her onto the console with ease. The Doctor kissed Yaz; forced her tongue dirtily past the threshold of her teeth and pushed the sleeves of her jacket off her shoulders. Yaz shrugged it off and flung it to one side but then — just more kissing. 

That wasn’t exactly what Yaz had in mind when she’d implored the Doctor to do whatever she wanted, but it was okay because the kiss was bruising and angry and rough. It was okay because the Doctor bit her lip and didn’t apologise. She knew how much Yaz hated it when she apologised. 

They had a safe word Yaz knew she could use whenever she needed to (the only time she’d come close was after the Doctor had suffered a particularly rough day; when they were both still reeling from the stench of smoke and death and Yaz had offered herself to the Doctor. A lifeline, Yaz had called it. To keep her from sinking in an ocean of her own self-loathing. And the Doctor had taken it. Oh, had she taken it). And that was good enough for her. When the Doctor worried too much about being careful with her, it made Yaz feel fragile. It made the sex feel like more than it was. 

The Doctor relocated her lips to her neck, and if Yaz was being honest, the kisses were making her feel a little impatient. That’s what she credited the knot in her stomach to: impatience. Luckily, she knew just how to pull the Doctor’s strings. 

“Y’know, before I saw the TARDIS,” she began, every word laced with a provocatively taunting edge, “I were gonna invite her up. To my room.” The Doctor stilled at her throat. Yaz suppressed a victorious smile. “My family are away and, I mean, she’s pretty — don’t you think? And she were _definitely_ into it.”

The Doctor lifted her head, eyes cutting deep. Her hands, which covered Yaz’s at the lip of the console, clamped down a fraction tighter. Yaz’s palms pressed painfully into the metal. It was a warning: stop right there.

But it was a warning Yaz didn’t heed. “She kept running her hand up my thigh all night.”

“Yaz.”

“She had the cutest little laugh, Doctor.”

Her hands squeezed tighter still. “Be quiet,” she seethed. 

“She tasted like lip gloss. Peach. How come you never wear lipgloss?” Yaz ghosted her lips against the Doctor’s and they brushed together when she spoke. “Can you taste it on my lips when you kiss me? Do I taste like her?”

Sharply, the Doctor dragged Yaz from the console and slammed her up against the closest pillar. Yaz was still simpering so the Doctor pressed her knee into her crotch, breathing heavily, and Yaz felt her heart pound against her ribs — an undomesticated beast slamming at the bars of its cage. 

“What are you playing at?” demanded the Doctor, rummaging around in the pockets of her coat. 

“I’m just—”

“You’re just nothin’.” Withdrawing a handkerchief from her inside pocket, the Doctor prised Yaz’s mouth open and stuffed it in. She grabbed her harshly by the jaw and her clipped fingernails dug into her skin. “Keep that there. If it comes out, if I hear you speak another word, you’re gonna be in trouble, Yaz.” The Doctor unclipped her suspenders and then circled the pillar. She grabbed Yaz’s wrists and bound them together behind the crystal column — tight. When she circled back around, she pinched Yaz’s chin and dragged her thumb down her lower lip. “If at any point y’wanna stop, just tap your foot against my leg. Understand?”

Yaz nodded. 

Furious eyes raked over Yaz’s body and she looked at her as if to say, _what am I gonna do with you_? She tugged at the hem of Yaz’s T-shirt, testing the thin material between her fingers, and sneered. 

Utilising hardly any of the strength Yaz knew she had, the Doctor grabbed Yaz’s shirt and tore it apart. Yaz thanked that it was only a cheap one from Primark; though she was so turned on at the moment she probably wouldn’t have minded either way. 

Next thing, the Doctor’s mouth was attached to her neck once more. Yaz could feel her teeth nipping against her skin and when she slipped her hands beneath the cups of her bra to grope at her breasts, Yaz grunted around the handkerchief. The Doctor twisted her nipples between her fingers and the grunts became more strained. Harsher. Needier. She felt the suspenders digging into her wrists when she tensed; wondered distantly if they would leave marks. 

“Is this what you like, Yaz?” the Doctor growled into her ear, fisting one hand in her hair and toying a nipple between two fingers with the other. “You like it when I’m angry? When I’m rough? Hm?” 

Tugging Yaz’s earlobe between her teeth, she dropped the hand at her breast to unhook the clasp of her jeans. She slid her zipper down, slipping a hand under her waistband solely to press her palm against the soaked fabric of Yaz’s underwear, and Yaz knocked her head back against the column. The Doctor stared her down and Yaz could see that she was as swept up in this storm as she. The two of them, at the heart of a hurricane. “If that’s what you want — fine. You asked for it.”

Dipping her fingers beneath Yaz’s underwear, she gave a preliminary swipe between Yaz’s folds to ensure that she was good and ready — that, she certainly was. “Bet nobody else gets you as wet as this, eh?” Her fingers brushed against Yaz’s throbbing nerves and Yaz keened into the touch. “Nah, nobody but me. You’d do well to keep that in mind, Khan.” 

After hiking one of Yaz’s legs up around her thigh, the Doctor plunged a finger inside of her. She knocked her forehead against Yaz’s as she fucked her and the white hot fury behind her eyes was like petrol to Yaz’s flame. She felt herself burn hotter; felt further arousal rush between her legs to meet the Doctor’s deft fingers. She couldn’t say why the idea of the Doctor being possessive over her was such a turn on; she didn’t even know why the Doctor was so possessive in the first place. Either she was right, and the Doctor really didn’t like sharing her things, or that dream hadn’t really been a dream. 

But it was.

It had to have been. 

She pushed it from her mind. Rather, the Doctor did that for her when she added another finger and picked up the pace. Yaz felt herself stretch marvelously around her; felt the Doctor’s fingers curl and locate a spot of such intense pleasure that Yaz moaned loudly through the fabric. Her mouth watered around it and the Doctor was still just staring at her while she fucked her and Yaz found it intense and uneasy and staggeringly hot. 

“You’re mine, Yaz,” she snarled. “Mine to play with. Mine to touch. Mine to make come.” Still ramming into her tirelessly, she plucked the handkerchief from Yaz’s mouth and tossed it over her shoulder. “Tell me.”

Eyelids fluttering, head thick with the opaque fog of fierce rapture, Yaz struggled to keep up. “Tell you—?”

“Tell me you’re mine. Only mine,” urged the Doctor. She dropped her head to Yaz’s chest and began to suck at the skin over her collarbone. Yaz could all but feel her blood vessels rupturing beneath the avid attention of her teeth and tongue. 

When Yaz didn’t oblige — in part because she wasn’t exactly sure what the Doctor was asking her to agree to — the Doctor began to rub tight circles around her clit and and leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Just say it, Yaz. Even if you don't mean it — just say it. Tell me you’re mine.” Abruptly, the Doctor’s fingers went still and Yaz had to choke back a distressed whimper. “Come on, Yaz. Tell me you’re mine and I’ll let you come.” 

“ _Fuck_ — I’m yours, Doctor, okay?” panted Yaz. “Just keep fucking going.” 

“Again.”

Yaz looked at her. She hesitated for only a second before she said, “I’m yours. I’m all yours.” 

The words seemed to land heavy in the otherwise silence of the room. The Doctor took an agonisingly long moment to digest them, her pupil-blown gaze a suffocating inferno of desire. Without warning, she crashed her lips into Yaz’s, smacking so harshly into her that her head knocked against the column. Yaz only moaned, because then the Doctor’s fingers were back at it — fast and clever and efficient — and she was so, so close.

“Come,” the Doctor grunted into her open mouth. “Do it. Come for me.” 

“Doctor, I’m so—” 

“Come.” 

“Doctor—”

“ _Come_.”

Yaz’s orgasm seized her by her whole body and she arched against the column, fluttering against the Doctor’s unforgiving fingers and tilting her head back with a low, husky moan. She was too deep in the clutches of euphoria to kiss the Doctor back, but that didn’t stop the Doctor from chasing her lips with her own and dragging her bottom lip between her teeth. She worked Yaz through her climax, fingers gradually slowing as she began to relax muscle by muscle. When the Doctor pulled out, Yaz’s chest was still heaving. 

“Open wide,” the Doctor said, and didn’t wait for Yaz to understand before shoving her glistening, coated fingers inside her mouth to the knuckle. Yaz choked against them and the Doctor held, held, held them there — before finally withdrawing and leaving Yaz a gasping, drooling mess; chin resting on her chest. “What d’you think?” asked the Doctor, lifting Yaz’s chin. “Taste better than peach lip gloss?”

Yaz released a strained, rasp of a laugh. “Definitely.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

The Doctor reached behind Yaz and untied her binds. When Yaz let her hands drop to her sides, she noticed the Doctor’s eyes linger on the reddened skin of her wrists. The Doctor pursed her lips but didn’t remark on it. Rather, she took the hand of a not-quite-recovered Yaz and began to pull her towards the stairs. 

“My room,” she said. “I’m not done with you, yet.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-) welp. i warned you. anyway lemme kno what u think LMFAO should i turn it down? turn it up? delete my account? tell me ur thoughts x


	3. daddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another depraved one lads. i'd apologise but i'm trying this new thing called not giving a fuck x
> 
> also @ the person who requested the whole daddy deal u horny fucker i hope u enjoy and also come wash off ur sins with me let us pray

“Come to daddy,” muttered the Doctor. “Come _on_. Just a little closer…”

Leaning against the console with her arms folded, Yaz watched the Doctor stick her arm through one of the open grates in the floor and grasp blindly for a loose bolt that had rolled between the slits. After almost knocking it further out of reach with her fingertips, her hand finally closed around it and she yelped her glee.

“Aha!” When she sprang to her feet, she almost stumbled backwards into Yaz — whom she hadn’t realised was standing so close behind her. “Oh. Hiya, Yaz.” 

“Why do you call yourself daddy?” Yaz wondered, amusement tugging at the skin around her eyes.

“Ah, old habits,” explained the Doctor, brushing the dust off her bolt and inspecting it closely. “I were a man for so long and — well, it has a better ring to it than mummy anyway, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” said Yaz, and the manner in which she said it made the Doctor pause; look up from her close study of the bolt. Their eyes locked and something hazardous rode the charged current that passed between them. 

Yaz peeled herself away from the console and took a slow step forward. “Y’know, it’s been a while since we…” 

The last time they’d hooked up had been after the Doctor’s fit of jealousy — a fit Yaz very much inspired and very much enjoyed. It’s not that things had been weird since. On the contrary, they’d carried on pretty much as normal. Except lately, the Doctor was not so easy to find as she had been beforehand. She’d disappear into the TARDIS’ infinite tunnels, wouldn’t frequent her own bedroom or her preferred study; kept even stranger hours than before. 

So, whenever Yaz was in the mood and went looking for the Doctor, her searches usually came up fruitless and she was forced to take care of herself another way. She couldn’t tell whether this was intentional or not.

The Doctor cleared her throat, pocketing the bolt. “Yeah, yes — right you are. It’s been a while.”

“Any particular reason?” Yaz asked. “I mean, if you want to stop, you only have to say so.” She said this casually; she said this like the very idea wasn’t so dejecting that she felt her stomach knot and her heart sink deeper into the quicksand of her gut with it. 

“Wh — no, Yaz, of course I don’t want to stop,” assured the Doctor. 

Yaz tilted her head, trying to catch the Doctor’s elusive gaze. “Are you sure? I mean, did you not have fun last time?”

“I always have fun with you, Yaz.” At the very least, she sounded sincere — even if she was still looking down at her boots and not at Yaz. “That’s never been our problem, has it?”

Yaz frowned. “We have a problem?” 

Lifting her head, the Doctor finally braved Yaz’s face and parted her lips to speak. Right on cue, the TARDIS lurched violently to one side and a high-pitched scream of an alarm wailed like a cat in agony. Whatever the Doctor had been about to say was swallowed up by the siren song of danger and adventure as they raced towards the console, hung on for dear life, and plunged headfirst into the unknown. 

* * *

The Doctor burst through the TARDIS door, boots pounding across the floor. She was positively fizzing with rage. Yaz was right behind her, watching in silence as she made for the console and navigated them off the planet. Every flick of a toggle, pull of a lever, turn of a dial — she did in an angry, jerky motion. She piloted them into the time vortex; and only when they were drifting and all was quiet and still did Yaz speak up. 

“Doct— “

“Not now, Yaz,” snapped the Doctor.

Yaz rolled her eyes. “Come on, Doctor, how can you seriously be mad at me? I saved all those people!”

The Doctor’s pupils cut sharply to Yaz. “You might just as easily have gotten them killed. It was a gamble, Yaz, and you weren’t just gambling with their lives! You were gambling with your own!” Her voice broke over that last word and Yaz watched the muscles in her jaw tense as she tried to compose herself. Watery eyed, hands fisted at her sides, she shook her head. “I told you to stay put.” 

“Since when do I ever do what I’m told?” Yaz thought the Doctor would have known her a little better by now; thought she’d have known not to expect Yaz to simply wait on the sidelines when she might be able to offer help to those in need. “Despite what you seem to believe, you’re not in charge of me, Doctor.” 

“No? Are you _really_ still holding on to the whole flat team structure thing?” The Doctor took two long strides and then there she was — right in Yaz’s face. Yaz stood in the furnace of her fury and tried not to flinch away from the blistering heat of it. “Well, there’s no team anymore, Yaz. It’s me and you. And I think maybe what you need is somebody who’ll take charge of you when you’re being reckless. You need somebody to control you; tell you what to do.” She grabbed Yaz roughly by the jaw, clamped her fingers into the soft flesh of her cheeks. “What do you think?”

The Doctor’s flames spread from the tips of her fingers and coursed through Yaz’s body, licking at her gut and and igniting parts of herself she hadn’t expected to burn so hot at a time like this. She said nothing.

“D’you think I need to remind you how to be a good girl, Yaz?” The Doctor leaned in so close Yaz felt the warm breath of her words ghost against her mouth. “How to be a good girl for your daddy?” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” whispered Yaz. The word slipped from her tongue before she could think to choke it back, and she couldn’t be sure whether it was arousal or fear that prompted it. Either way, it pretty much summed up exactly how she felt when the Doctor sneered down at her like that. 

The Doctor shoved Yaz back by her face. “Go to your room and wait for me,” she spat, “and don’t do a _thing_ except wait. Think y’can manage at least that?”

That, she definitely could. If only her mouth got the memo. “I — uh—”

“Oh, spit it out, Khan.”

Yaz cleared her throat. “I’ll wait,” she managed. 

The Doctor nodded her head over her shoulder. “Go. Get out of my sight.” 

* * *

For fifteen minutes, Yaz sat on the edge of her bed and did nothing except wait. She hardly moved a muscle for fear that, somehow, the Doctor would know. She really hadn’t expected the Doctor to react so explosively when she learned what Yaz had done. It was a risk, but it was the kind of risk the Doctor herself would have taken. 

A handful of rescued captives and an imploding building later, Yaz found the Doctor staring at the ruins she’d left in her wake. She thought Yaz was still inside. She thought Yaz was dead. The Doctor had looked broken; a shell. And when she saw Yaz standing there, Yaz expected a hug. She expected to be told how well she’d done. What she’d gotten instead was a hostile volatility the likes of which she’d scarcely before witnessed. Not without the involvement of a safe word, at least. 

So, yes, she was a little nervous. And nothing thrilled her more.

When the Doctor finally showed up, she didn’t bother knocking. Missing her coat, she stepped inside — hands in her pockets and sleeves of her undershirt rolled up to her elbows. Crossing the room, she made a point of eyeing Yaz; of glancing about the room for clues as to whether she’d been disobedient. 

Yaz swallowed. “Doctor?”

“Don’t talk.”

The Doctor came to a stop a few feet away from Yaz. She looked around until her eyes landed on Yaz’s desk, which was pressed up to the wall opposite her bed. Casually, the Doctor reached for the chair and swivelled it around. She took a seat. Hands steepled and elbows resting on her knees, the Doctor stared Yaz down. And that’s all she did. She did it until Yaz began to fidget uncomfortably; until she began to wonder if the Doctor actually intended to do anything but watch her. 

“Come here,” she said at last. The tonal threat lacing the command did little to ease Yaz’s disquiet.

Wordless, Yaz got to her feet and approached the Doctor. She’d scarcely reached her when the Doctor took her by the hips and dragged her down onto her lap so that she was straddling one of her thighs. Looking her hungrily up and down, the Doctor darted the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip and tugged at the fabric of Yaz’s blouse.

“Off.”

Yaz began to unbutton her shirt, but her fingers were trembling too much for her to make very quick work of it. Patience wearing thin, the Doctor smacked Yaz’s hand away. 

“Can’t do anythin’ your bloody self,” she muttered, and yanked the shirt open. Several of her buttons popped loose and pinged off the floor. The Doctor helped Yaz out of the blouse and, once it was discarded, reached behind her and unclasped her bra in one swift, expert motion. It dropped to the ground with a muted thud. 

No preamble — the Doctor took one of Yaz’s nipples straight into her mouth. Yaz gasped when she dragged the hard nub between her teeth, gripping the back of the chair with both hands, and the Doctor glared up at her the entire time. 

Her other nipple, the Doctor twisted sharply between thumb and forefinger. Yaz hissed and she did it again until the hiss became a curse. Yaz let her head tilt back, eyes closed to the sound of the Doctor’s avid sucking. Unthinking, she rutted against the Doctor’s thigh, seeking a pressure she hadn’t yet been offered. That was a mistake. Vice-like, the Doctor gripped Yaz’s hips to still her. Yaz snapped open her eyes and looked down. 

“Did I say you could do that?” growled the Doctor, her teeth flashing something menacing beneath the curl of her lip. “Well?”

“No.”

“ _No_. You’re gonna have to earn it this time, Yaz.” The Doctor shrugged off her suspenders and untucked her shirts. “Do exactly what I tell you to do, and maybe you’ll reap the rewards. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

“Yes.” Yaz’s vocabulary had been reduced to monosyllabic, one word answers, apparently. The almost-dying, the still-abundant adrenaline coursing through her; the Doctor’s attention to her body — and _especially_ the grit and gravel in her voice — had all worked to slowly but surely make of her a needy, degraded mess. 

“Good girl,” lauded the Doctor. Her depravity was palpable and, when she reached for Yaz’s hand and guided it to her crotch, Yaz only became infected by said depravity. It might well have been terminal and she wouldn’t have cared.

When her fingers brushed against something solid and hard through the Doctor’s trousers, Yaz started. “Fuck — are you wearing—”

“This is a new one.” 

She pressed Yaz’s fingers further against herself and Yaz watched the respondent flutter of her eyelids with no small measure of rapt intrigue. She applied a smidgeon more pressure and the Doctor grunted. 

Yaz narrowed her eyes. “Doctor, can you _feel_ this?”

The Doctor didn’t answer. Instead, she unclasped her culottes and then popped her brow at Yaz expectantly. Taking the hint, Yaz slipped a hand beneath the Doctor’s trousers. Her hand wrapped around something warm and rock hard — not quite flesh-like, but not rubbery either. A happy medium. 

“Go on,” urged the Doctor.

Yaz pulled it out. What sprang free from the Doctor’s culottes caused a brief but telling uptick of Yaz’s lips. The strap was marginally bigger than those they’d used in the past, and either the Doctor had had it custom made or it naturally adapted to the exact hue of her skin. It was warm against her palm. Experimentally, she ran her hand along the shaft. The Doctor bit down on her bottom lip and Yaz smirked. 

“God, you’re so big,” she hailed, gaining a little more traction each time she stroked her. 

As Yaz wanked the Doctor off, the Doctor captured the peak of a breast in her mouth once again — occasionally groaning against her nipple or biting down a little harder than typical. The greater Yaz’s pace, the teethier the Doctor became. It got to the point where the Doctor had to pull away, and instead sat groaning against Yaz’s chest and cupping her roughly from behind. She squeezed Yaz’s arse without mercy; without lenience.

“Fuck, Yaz,” she rasped after a while, peering upwards at her with a lopsided grin, “I knew there was somethin’ you were good for.” 

Yaz opened her mouth to bite back with an equally cutting remark. The Doctor, preempting this, grabbed her by her jaw and yanked her face in so close their noses knocked together. Slowly, she edged her thumb into Yaz’s mouth. When she pushed it in past the knuckle, Yaz gyrated her tongue around it and the Doctor leered devilishly at her. She let her forehead rest against Yaz’s and looked down; watched with a lascivious sigh as she pulled her off. Her member pulsed against Yaz — throbbed like the real thing.

The Doctor reclaimed her thumb. She gripped Yaz’s wrist, stopping her mid-motion, and said, “Get on your knees.” Her voice was black. 

Granted hardly enough time to process the request, Yaz was all but shoved off the Doctor’s lap. The Doctor leaned back against the chair. For the time being, she’d replaced Yaz’s hand with her own. She met Yaz’s eyes and stroked herself. 

It took a stunned few seconds for Yaz to remember what she’d been told to do. She started towards the bed to grab a pillow, but then— 

“I didn’t tell you to make yourself comfortable, Yaz. I told you to get on your knees,” snapped the Doctor. “Y’really need to learn how to start following instructions, don’t you?”

Yaz dithered only for a second more. The Doctor was already at en eight. She’d seen her at a nine; didn’t even want to know what ten looked like. At least, not tonight. Yaz dropped to her knees between the Doctor’s legs. Her mouth hovered mere centimeters from the tip of the toy. 

The Doctor placed her hand at the back of her head and wove her fingers through her hair. “You waitin’ for a written invitation?” she sneered. When Yaz glowered at her, the Doctor’s smug smile melted. Hiding behind it had been an outright hostile glare. “Don’t look at me like that, Yaz. Only one of us has any right to be angry at the minute. Now,” she said, leaning in and dropping the volume of her voice, “do as your _daddy_ tells you — and open your mouth.”

Yaz hated how much it turned her on when the Doctor treated her like that. She hated herself for it and she hated the Doctor for it — but hell, if it didn’t spur her into action. When Yaz parted her lips, the Doctor yanked her head back by her braid and spat into her mouth. Yaz winced at the sharp pain in her scalp, but then the Doctor loosened her hold and guided her head towards her shaft. She didn’t force anything. No, she waited for Yaz to do the honours; waited for her to wrap her fingers around the base and then take the very tip into her mouth. 

The knowledge that the Doctor could actually feel Yaz’s lips and tongue sliding further down the toy only exacerbated Yaz’s arousal tenfold. 

She swirled her tongue around the tip and heard the Doctor’s breathing pick up. Yaz began to thrust her head. Each time she lowered herself back down, she took a little more into her mouth, assisting the motion with a hand still tugging at the base. 

With a moan, the Doctor slumped back against the chair and her head lolled over the back of it. “God, I’ve missed this,” she sighed, raking a hand through her hair. 

Her approval (and, frankly, the sight alone of the Doctor swept up in such pure gratification) only roused Yaz further. She took her deeper — as deep as was comfortable. Soon, she felt the tip prodding at the back of her throat. 

This didn’t sate the Doctor quite as much as she’d assumed it would. “I wanna see you choking on me, Yaz.” She stroked Yaz’s cheek. “Think y’can be a good girl and take it deeper? Hm?” If anything, she always knew the right buttons to press to turn Yaz to putty — ready to mould around her every desire. 

“Y’gonna be a good girl for me, Yaz?” she crooned, cupping Yaz’s face. “Gonna make me happy? Let me know how sorry you are?”

Molten heat pooled between her legs and Yaz did as she was told. She took the toy as far into her mouth as she physically could and before long, she was choking on it, drooling around it, coughing aggressively against it. The Doctor pulled back for a second, only to thrust her hips a fraction and drive it right back into her throat. She held it; savoured the way Yaz choked and spluttered. 

When she pulled out again, Yaz dropped her head — hand at her throat as she sucked in several lungfuls of air. She wiped the spit from her chin with the back of her wrist and when she looked up, she found the Doctor watching attentively with her lower lip pulled between her teeth. She was living for this. They were both, it seemed, as lecherous as one another.

The Doctor got to her feet. “Get on the chair,” she instructed.

Thankful for the relief to her aching knees, Yaz allowed the Doctor to help her to her feet with a hand around her upper arm. She pushed Yaz onto the chair and the Doctor stepped into the space between her thighs. Wrapping one hand loosely around the back of Yaz’s neck, she used the other to drag the tip of the toy down over her lips. 

“Open.”

Yaz opened her mouth. 

“Wider.” 

Yaz opened her mouth wider.

She tucked her teeth beneath her tongue just in time for the Doctor to push into her. She felt warm and big and she filled her mouth in no time, and then she was fucking her. The Doctor thrusted her hips at a steady pace; her hold on the back of Yaz’s head light and unimposing should she feel the need to withdraw. 

Semi-frequently, the Doctor would pull all the way out to allow Yaz a few moments to catch her breath. Then, just as soon, she’d be thrusting right back in almost to the hilt. Yaz gripped the back of the Doctor’s thighs. Her eyes watered and her throat was raw and the underwear she had on right now was destined for the bin when all this was over. In a word, she was affected. The Doctor knew it, too.

“Who’s your daddy, Yaz? Hm?” she prompted when she pulled out again, wiping Yaz’s chin with her thumb. 

“You,” Yaz just about managed to croak. 

“Come again?”

“You are.”

“I’m what?”

Jaw set in frustration, Yaz looked up. “You’re my daddy,” she glowered, enunciating the words to avoid the humiliation of having to repeat herself a fourth time. 

Self-satisfied, the Doctor chucked Yaz’s chin in some mockery of pride and then walked to the back of her chair, swivelling it around with her as she did so. Yaz faced the desk and the Doctor leaned against it. “Keep sucking,” she said. 

This time, the Doctor’s hands gripped the lip of the desk and she let Yaz do all the work. Each of the Doctor’s moans, groans and curses only galvanised Yaz further. Outside the bedroom, the Doctor never swore. It was Yaz’s great honour to personally reduce her to that with naught but her tongue. 

“Fuck — you’re _so_ good at this, Yaz. Anyone ever tell you how good you are at sucking cock?” she asked, her knuckles turning white at the desk.“‘Cause you’re excellent. _God,_ are you excellent.” 

Yaz sucked her off with fervor; with delight. She moaned against the Doctor’s cock and it was sloppy and it was greedy and she could tell it was driving the Doctor insane. 

“Christ — oh, _Christ,_ Yaz — I’m gonna come,” grunted the Doctor. It looked like she was resting all her weight onto her palms. She peered down at Yaz. “You gonna be a good girl and swallow my come? Gonna do that for me, yeah?”

Though Yaz hadn’t even been aware the Doctor’s latest appendage was able to do such a thing, this new information didn’t stymie her any. If anything, she picked up the pace. The Doctor’s hands found the back of her head once more — not pushing; merely resting. 

“Oh — fuck, fuck, fuck. Look at me, look at me.”

Yaz looked up. Their eyes met. Yaz took her to the back of her throat over and over again and studied the Doctor’s face when, a measly few seconds later, she came. The Doctor elicited a long, throaty groan and tore her eyes away. Face contorted into a portrait of bliss, she tilted her head back and clamped her eyes shut. In all likelihood, she wasn’t aware that she was pushing down on Yaz’s head so forcefully, but as Yaz felt something warm and sticky coat her tongue and throat she began to choke around the full length of the Doctor’s shaft. 

As soon as the Doctor realised — though it was a long moment — she yanked her hand back and Yaz pulled away. As she did so, a string of saliva and come formed between her lips and the Doctor’s cock. Yaz swallowed audibly. When she did, the Doctor’s half-lidded eyes fell over her with reverence. 

Yaz never tired of that look. Post-orgasm and so delirious with ecstasy she almost looked like she was in love. Not that that’s what Yaz wanted — it was simply a good credit to her performance. She lived to please.

In a heartbeat, the Doctor blinked the look from her face. She peeled herself away from the desk. “Stand up.” 

Yaz got eagerly to her feet, knocking the chair back with her thighs as she did so. 

The Doctor gave her a once over — bare chested and still in her jeans. “Think y’deserve a reward for good behaviour?”

“Please.”

“Prove it,” demanded the Doctor. “Show me how wet it made you to get me off.” 

Yaz unbuttoned her jeans, thanking that her hands were at least steadier than they had been before, and dove a hand beneath her waistband. She ran two fingers along herself. When she pulled them back out, they were glistening. The Doctor stepped up to her and lifted Yaz’s hand to her mouth — proceeding to suck her coated fingers with a quiet, satisfied hum. 

Without warning, she dipped her own hand in Yaz’s blistering honeypot — eyes aflame when she realised just how deep the well ran — and gave a leisurely stroke through her folds. Yaz tensed at the contact, shallow though it was. “Christ. That really did it for you, eh?” When she removed her hand, she offered it to Yaz. Obedient and more than willing, Yaz licked her sticky fingers clean and then pulled them out with a soft _pop._

The Doctor surged forwards and kissed Yaz. 

It was salty and smeared in Yaz’s own arousal; it was gasping and messy and the Doctor cupped Yaz harshly over her jeans to remind her that she wasn’t kissing her because she cared but that it was merely an exchange of flavours. Yaz was burning with dark desire. She could feel herself throbbing, aching, wanting. _God,_ she needed to be touched. 

The Doctor pushed herself off Yaz and stumbled backwards as though it had been physically taxing to tear their lips apart. “Pants off,” she breathed through swollen lips. 

Watched closely by the Doctor, Yaz slid her jeans off down her legs and stepped out of them. The Doctor was stroking herself again. The toy had wilted a little after she came, but even as Yaz undressed she could see it growing harder and more erect again. Recharged and ready to go, supposed Yaz. 

“Those, too,” said the Doctor, nodding at Yaz’s underwear.

She peeled the sticky undergarment off. Once Yaz was entirely naked, the Doctor crooked a finger. _Come here_. When she approached, the Doctor draped Yaz’s arms over her shoulders and lifted her onto the desk with incredible ease. Yaz felt the toy brush up against her and her breathing hitched. As the Doctor shuffled into position, a keen Yaz wrapped her legs around her hips. The Doctor held the toy at its base and lined it up against her entrance. 

She lifted her head. They were so close their breaths mingled; so close Yaz could make out every individual flake of pure gold in the Doctor’s lust-filled, hazel eyes. The proximity floored her, for a second. 

“Ready?” asked the Doctor, the word like a needle to a balloon. It popped, and Yaz snapped out of her daze. 

Yaz nodded. “Read — _oh_!”

With a malicious grin, the Doctor slid inside her. Yaz was so wet it hardly met much friction, but it was still a couple of degrees larger than she was accustomed to. As such, the Doctor’s entrance was met with a delectable burn when her walls were forced to stretch further than usual to accommodate her size.

Fortunately, the Doctor was slow to sheath the toy. She took her time; made sure not to hurt Yaz. Yaz didn’t mind a little pain with her pleasure but even she had her limits and she was glad the Doctor seemed to know where they were. The Doctor was holding Yaz by her hips, cheek pressed up against her own; both of them breathing heavily. When the base of the toy levelled with Yaz’s stomach, Yaz couldn’t contain her open mouthed gasp. Nobody had ever been so deep inside her before. It wasn’t uncomfortable so much as it was new and — quite literally — breathtaking. 

“Who’s your daddy, Yaz?” the Doctor asked, tongue swiping over the lobe of her ear. 

“You.”

The Doctor pulled halfway out and then slammed right back inside her. Yaz moaned and her head dropped to the Doctor’s shoulder.

“Who’s in control?”

“You — you are.”

Again she pulled out, and again she drove right back in, hands dropping from Yaz’s hips to curl around her thighs. Yaz swore loudly.

“Who do you answer to?”

“You.”

Yaz would have said anything. She’d have abandoned all her morals, defied all her virtues and every principle in the book, if only it meant the Doctor would fuck her like she was dying to be fucked. 

“Good girl,” purred the Doctor. 

It took everything Yaz had not to swear again.

Just like that, the Doctor began to fuck her in earnest. Yaz raked her nails along the Doctor’s back and the whole desk rattled unsteadily beneath her every time the Doctor rammed into her. For every moan she suppressed, half a dozen broke free. That number rocketed when the Doctor ducked her head to Yaz’s exposed shoulder to bite and suck at her skin. 

“Fuck, Doctor, you’re so fucking big,” Yaz all but whimpered. 

“Yeah, you like that? Hm?” She ran her tongue up the length of Yaz’s throat and then sunk her teeth in. Yaz moaned: jolted, percussive, fragmented. It hurt and it hurt in the most heavenly way. She didn’t have to be able to see the Doctor’s back to know that her fingernails would be leaving raised red trails across her pale skin. This only stimulated the Doctor further; made her fuck Yaz harder and faster. “You’re so tight, Yaz. _Christ,_ you feel so fucking good.” 

“ _More_.”

“More?” the Doctor laughed. It was wicked and dripping in sin. Still, she indulged Yaz her request. If she’d been holding back before, she certainly wasn’t when she picked up her already brutal pace and ploughed so deep into Yaz she swore she could see stars, galaxies, constellations dancing behind her eyes.

“Doctor,” gasped Yaz, “I — I think I’m close.”

And then the Doctor pulled out. 

“Wh—” Yaz released a shameless whine— “ _Doctor_ ,” is all she could gather the sense to cry out. 

Ignoring Yaz, the Doctor took a step back and dragged her off the desk. She pinched her chin and swiped a tongue upwards over her lips, before leaning in to whisper, “Bend over,” right into her mouth. 

Yaz was too much of a mess to do anything other than wordlessly comply. She swiped the clutter from her desk and then felt the Doctor press into her back. She bent Yaz over with a firm hand at her head. The Doctor kept the hand there — kept Yaz’s cheek pinned to the desk — as she scooted her feet further apart with her boots and spread her legs. Yaz felt the Doctor’s tip rest without pressure at her entrance and braced herself.

The Doctor grabbed one of her shoulders. “How much d’you want it, Yaz?”

“So much, Doctor,” Yaz pleaded. “I need it. I need _you._ ” 

For a moment so finite it might well have been imagined, the Doctor’s ironclad hold on her shoulder faltered — and then clamped back down even harsher than before. Yaz bit down on her lip as she felt the Doctor slide back into her. As she did, the Doctor bent over her so that Yaz was pinned to the desk by her body. She coiled an arm around Yaz’s neck to lift her head back and when the Doctor next spoke, she did so with her lips brushing against the shell of her ear. 

“Lemme show you what you get when you’re a good girl for me,” she breezed. 

Then she was pounding into her. Yaz released an obscene string of curses, her head only held up by the Doctor’s arm around her throat — which tensed to the point that Yaz’s moans became choked and wheezy. In a blind frenzy, Yaz grabbed a pencil from the desk only for it to snap in her hand. The jagged edges dug into her palm and the Doctor tore it from her hand and tossed the pieces to one side. She was resolute in her strength and endurance. Superhuman. Or, rather, not human at all. 

Filling the room were the harsh, wet sounds of the Doctor slamming into her and both of their grunts and moans which, Yaz thought idly, harmonised well together. Yaz half worried the desk might break with how hard they were going at it. Admittedly, it wouldn’t be the first time. 

When the Doctor bit down on the tip of her ear, Yaz stopped paying mind to the durability of the desk or how well their moans complemented one another. Sudden as the snap of a rubber band, she was catapulted back into the devastating heat of the moment. She found herself pushing back against the Doctor’s shaft — thrusting against her. A most satisfied, albeit strangled, moan fell forth from the Doctor’s lips. 

“Who’s your fucking daddy, Yaz?” she grunted. “Who is? _Who_?”

Yaz couldn’t even attempt to muster a response through her moans and her pants and the all-consuming blaze ignited by the friction of the Doctor’s pulsing cock inside her. She felt the Doctor bury her teeth in the crook of her neck, felt her powerful arm squeeze tighter against her throat, felt the mouth watering slam of the toy hitting her walls with every thrust — and knew she was nearing the gut-churning precipice she’d been dying to plummet over all evening. 

“Doctor, I’m gonna come,” she panted. “Fuck — I’m gonna come.”

“Hold it.”

“Doctor—”

“Not ‘til I’m there,” growled the Doctor, and her breath against the nape of Yaz’s neck had the small hairs there standing to attention. 

She loosened the arm at her throat. Instead, the Doctor hooked her fingers into Yaz’s mouth and Yaz was exerting every last iota of willpower on not giving in to her release right then — as the Doctor’s fingers curled over her teeth and her hand clamped around her chin. Still, Yaz was inching closer and closer towards her coveted free fall into bliss and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold it off. The Doctor was still driving into her relentlessly. Yaz was forever amazed by her unabating stamina — but in that moment, she loathed it.

Soon, however, the Doctor’s moans became raspier, louder, deeper. “Fuck — almost there,” she announced breathily. “Hold it, Yaz. Keep holding it. _Fuck_ — there’s a good girl.” 

The Doctor reached around Yaz’s thigh and when her fingers located her inflamed clit, Yaz let slip a strained moan and white-knuckled the edges of the desk. She rubbed tight circles over it and Yaz thought her truly evil. Yaz thought her a monster for asking her not to let go when she was all but dangling her from the edge by a thread. 

But then — mercy. Quelling the hatred brewing like a tempestuous storm in Yaz’s heart, the Doctor at last grunted the very words Yaz had been agonising to hear right into her ear, where they landed hot and wet.

“ _God_ — come for me, Yaz. Now.” 

Two things happened then.

First, Yaz came harder than she could remember doing in a long time. It was so intense the edges of her vision went dark and she released a staggered, throaty moan that might have been the Doctor’s name and might just as easily have been a vulgar curse. Her body seized up with it; held her captive for so long it eradicated all but the sensation of the Doctor’s ceaseless onslaught from her senses. 

At the same moment, the Doctor came inside her. It was warm and wet and sticky and it was everywhere — and the Doctor groaned huskily against Yaz’s cheek as she pumped everything she had into Yaz’s body. 

Her thrusts slowed and slowed and then, once the two of them were hostages to their own ecstasy no more, she stopped. The Doctor slumped on top of Yaz and they both lay, bent over the desk, breathing heavily. She was still all the way inside Yaz and Yaz thought she could feel what was probably a cocktail of both her own arousal and the Doctor’s come seeping down her thighs. 

“You all right?” the Doctor asked after a long moment. 

Yaz nodded mutely. Verbal communication was but a distant memory right then. 

“Water? Dunno ‘bout you, but I could defo use some water.”

The Doctor pulled out of Yaz and the motion made a slick noise; made all the louder for the otherwise silence of the room. Yaz exhaled shakily as she did so. When the Doctor disappeared into the next room, Yaz just about managed to carry herself, on jellied legs, to the edge of the bed. The Doctor returned carrying a glass of water — of which she had already drank half. She handed it to Yaz. 

Her hands were still shaking when she lifted it to her lips and proceeded to drain the rest of the water. The Doctor, she noticed, had zipped herself back up. Were it not for the colour of her cheeks and how thoroughly ruffled she was, one might not have even guessed at what she’d just been up to; that she’d just fucked Yaz so hard she was still struggling to recover. How she’d managed to get Yaz out of all her clothes and somehow keep all of hers on was beyond her. Next time, she’d have to try and balance the scales a bit. 

Once the glass was empty, the Doctor held her hand out for it and Yaz passed it back. 

“That was — Doctor — I mean, _fuck_ ,” stammered Yaz. Her head was still scrambled and she was struggling to articulate without the use of expletives instead of descriptors. “That were incredible,” she said. Incredible. There. Good enough. 

Except the Doctor wasn’t smiling. “When you do what I tell you to do, Yaz, it’s amazin’ what you can get out of it.” She tilted her head. “If you defy me again, I can guarantee this’ll go down much differently. You’re lucky I even let you come. I mean, for a bit back there, I were really considering lettin’ you just suffer.”

Yaz searched the Doctor with a frown. “Seriously? Doctor, I were only trying to—”

“No more excuses, Yaz,” the Doctor cut in sharply. Then, visibly, the venom drained from her features. She looked down into the empty glass. “I _won’t_ lose you, and I don’t care what I have to do to keep that from happening. Just — just tell me you understand. Please.”

The Doctor’s sudden meekness was such a stark contrast to her previously domineering demeanour that it gave Yaz pause. Studying the Doctor’s downturned eyes — the slump of her shoulders — Yaz finally understood. Here stood an ancient, world weary Time Lord with an insurmountable burden of grief on her shoulders. Here stood a woman, asking her friend just to be a little more careful with her own life; to spare her what might well be the straw to break the camel’s back. 

“I understand.”

The Doctor lifted her gaze. If she’d been expecting a fight, she was clearly relieved not to have been granted one. “I know you don’t like it when I — when I’m nice to you in the bedroom. You don’t like it when I’m careful with you. That’s okay,” said the Doctor, though her voice wavered, “‘cause I know this is just sex. But you’re still my friend. And out there — look, I do care about you, Yaz. I really don’t want you gettin’ hurt.” 

“Not unless it’s by your hand,” quipped Yaz, but her joke fell flat. Her smile died on her lips before it could form in its entirety. She sighed. “I know you care, Doctor.”

“Do you?”

Yaz leaned back. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

The Doctor gestured helplessly at her. “The way you talk about yourself sometimes, Yaz — callin’ yourself my toy. My thing. While we’re goin’ at it, that’s fine. That’s great. Just as long as you don’t really believe those things.” She paused, chewing her bottom lip. “You’re more than that, Yaz. Much, much more.”

“Doctor—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Shut up, Doctor, right?” The Doctor released a self-deprecating chuckle that settled, uneasy, in Yaz’s chest. She stared at Yaz for a moment and Yaz couldn’t make out what it was that she was seeing behind her eyes. Eventually, the Doctor offered a painfully thin smile and said, “Well. G’night, Yaz.” 

And with that, she made to leave.

She was almost at the door when Yaz, catching the both of them off guard, stopped her with a question she didn’t weigh up the significance of before sending out into the wide, open world.

“Maybe you could stay?”


	4. mind games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't even know how to prepare u for this one except to say just,,, prepare,,,,,  
>   
> theres also a bit of plot at the end of this chap for a change oops but i did NOT proofread it so just shoot me in the head if there are any mistakes bc i just cannot re read this one rn
> 
> ps u can 100% thank @timelxrd for basically all of this lads :-)

“What is it?”

“Y’remember how I said I wanted to try something new?” asked the Doctor. “Well, this is it.”

Yaz looked down at the small _Kerblam!_ box in the Doctor’s hand. She’d come into her room, giddy with excitement, just a moment prior — announcing that she came bearing gifts. Come to think of it, Yaz did remember the Doctor suggesting something a little different for them to try the next time. Yaz thought maybe she might’ve been referring to roleplay, or wondered if she wanted Yaz to top for a change. Needless to say, she was confused when the Doctor tore the box open, carefully set the bubble wrap down, and pulled out—

“Again, what _is_ that?”

A small gelatinous pad, no larger than a 10p coin, sat in the Doctor’s palm. She looked at Yaz. “D’you trust me?” 

When Yaz met her gaze, she found the Doctor searching her intently. Her pupils flitted between Yaz’s eyes as though to make absolutely sure of the sincerity in them when she said, “Yes. Always.” Though, it did make Yaz wonder exactly what it was about this thing that required so much trust on her behalf. It didn’t look like much of anything. 

The Doctor grinned. “Turn around.” 

Yaz did as she was told. In their reflection in the mirror on the wall, she saw the Doctor lick one side of the pad. Then, after sweeping Yaz’s braid to one side, the Doctor stuck it to the back of her neck. It connected to her skin with a brief but painless shock that sent shivers up and down her spine. Straight away, she felt something — a vague, almost imperceptible pressure — make itself at home in the back of her mind. Moments later, she couldn’t be sure that pressure hadn’t always been there; that it wasn’t just a figment of her imagination. When she turned and looked over her shoulder to get a look in the mirror, she discovered that it was practically invisible save for a faint outline around the edge.

“Won’t be able to remove it yourself, so don’t bother trying,” the Doctor said, rocking forwards on the toes of her boots with a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her delight was plain. 

“Why? Will it hurt?”

“No, you just won’t be able to do it.” 

Yaz shrugged. “All right,” she said, and turned to face the Doctor with a smirk. “So, does that mean we can take our clothes off now?”

“Nope!” came the Doctor’s cheerful reply.

Yaz’s face fell beneath the inward pull of her brow. “Why not?”

The Doctor nodded at her neck. “The link needs twenty four hours to sync properly, I’m afraid. No funny business ‘til then.”

“Sync? With what? Seriously, what even is this?” Yaz asked, bringing a hand up to touch it. Her finger trailed the outer rim, but the gesture revealed no secrets. The Doctor only offered a dark, Cheshire cat smile in response to Yaz’s question — which was unfair, because she knew how much it got to Yaz when she looked at her like that. “Oh, come on, Doctor,” she implored, looping her fingers around the Doctor’s suspenders and tugging her body closer. “Not even a quick one?”

“Yaz…”

“Please?” she pleaded, words settling softly on the corner of the Doctor’s mouth. Yaz kissed the Doctor’s jaw, and then ducked her head to her neck. With the way the Doctor sighed at the contact of lips on skin, it was beginning to look like maybe Yaz was going to get her way. 

Until, jolting Yaz, the Doctor grabbed her firmly by both her wrists and prised her hands away from her suspenders. “Twenty four hours,” she repeated — more resolute this time. She dropped Yaz’s wrists and started for the door. 

“But—”

“And don’t even think about touchin’ yourself,” the Doctor called over her shoulder, before halting with her hand on the doorknob and shooting Yaz an especially diabolical smirk, “‘cause I’ll know if you do.” 

With that, she slipped out of the room — and Yaz collapsed backwards onto her bed with a beyond frustrated sigh. 

* * *

Over the next twenty four hours, a large chunk of which was spent on an undercover mission to foil an interplanetary espionage scheme, Yaz couldn’t stop fretting about the so-called link on the back of her neck. The whole time, it didn’t do anything. It didn’t react to any of her pokes and prodding, it didn’t make any sounds; there were no physical sensations. 

It was just there. 

Only, as the day wore on, Yaz’s mind began to wander in a way it never had before. It started out small: flashing back to some of her more heated, impassioned encounters with the Doctor at inopportune moments, before remembering she was mid-conversation or even mid-sentence and pressing on with a tinge of colour suffusing her cheeks. It escalated from there. She’d think she could feel the Doctor’s breath on her neck or her body pressing up against her or her lips ghosting against her ear — all while the Doctor stood on the opposite end of the room, theorising and gesticulating and otherwise totally oblivious. 

These hallucinations became more visceral and, as such, harder to ignore as time went by. At one point, she and the Doctor were hiding out in a broom cupboard and Yaz swore she could feel a hand between her thighs — despite the fact that they were alone in there and the Doctor was fiddling with the vent over an air duct. When she was unable to contain a quiet whimper, the Doctor shot her a puzzled frown.

“You’re not scared, are you?”

“Doctor, what is this thing _doing_ to me?”

“What thing?” Finally, the vent came loose and their escape was unhindered. “Aha! After you, Yaz.”

She realised that the Doctor must have been playing dumb — but for the life of her, Yaz couldn’t figure out why the Doctor would stick her with such a powerful hallucinogen and then not do anything about it when it got her so extremely worked up. Because that’s what she supposed it was: some kind of hallucinogen that showed people their most salacious desires. 

Even after they exposed the elusive spy network, earned medals for their service to the planet, and returned to the TARDIS — the Doctor still wasn’t biting. 

“Doctor,” urged Yaz, “do you really need to be doing repairs right now?”

The Doctor, still sporting the suit she’d donned as part of their disguise, had draped her smoking jacket over one of the railings and was presently elbows deep in an exposed panel of wiring beneath the console with her sleeves rolled up. “Well, when else would I be doing repairs? Let ‘em all get on top of you and that’s when you end up in a timeship pile-up ‘cause you forgot to fix the blinkers.”

“The TARDIS doesn’t have blinkers.”

“No? Hm. Maybe that’s how you end up in a timeship pile-up then.” 

Concealed from the Doctor’s view by a curtain of wires, Yaz throttled thin air with her jaw clenched. “You know what I’ve been going through all day, right? This bloody — this thing on the back of my neck — it’s been driving me insane. This was _your_ idea!”

“It’s not quite been twenty four hours yet, Yaz,” the Doctor reminded her, as if Yaz hadn’t been counting down the seconds herself. There was under an hour to go but Yaz didn’t even think she could wait that long. “And of course I know; I’ve virtually been able to smell your arousal all day. You’re not exactly subtle, are you?”

“Kinda hard to be subtle when I’m being groped by my own hallucinations.” Even as she said it, Yaz felt two arms wind around her ribs. She jumped almost out of her skin and looked down. The Doctor’s hands — because they were undeniably hers — slid down her stomach towards the waistband of her trousers. When Yaz spun abruptly on her heels, however, there was nobody behind her. She groaned her vexation. 

“Your _own_ hallucinations?”

But Yaz was already stalking out of the console room and towards her bedroom. All day, she had been fondled, groped, and felt up by hands she couldn’t see. She’d been barraged with visions of the Doctor doing the dirtiest things to her; had even felt her voice in her ear on occasion as she recounted all the many things she wished to do with Yaz and her body when they were alone. Needless to say, she was dying for a little relief from the pressure that had been building like gas in a balloon for the past twenty four hours. 

If the Doctor wouldn’t provide her with it, then she’d damn well do it herself. Before she popped.

Yaz waited for her shower to heat up and tried to get a good look at the tab on her neck in the bathroom mirror. She was, decidedly, through with it. So she thought. Except when she tried to remove it, her hands refused to comply with her head. Whenever she thought about peeling the link off, her fingers didn’t even twitch — as if a connection between her brain and her body had been severed or blocked. Try as she might, nothing worked. Her hands ended up fisting stubbornly at her sides and her muscles trembled against her stubborn will. 

“Shit,” muttered Yaz. Through the steam-misted mirror, she caught the familiar, albeit smudged, outline of the Doctor. She didn’t have to turn to know she wasn’t really there; to know that when the Doctor’s front pressed into her back, it wasn’t actually happening. 

“Wait for me, Yaz,” the Doctor crooned into her ear. “Not long now.”

Goosebumps rose to the surface of Yaz’s arms. She wasn’t waiting around for her to get done tinkering. There was no telling how long that could take — and it’s not like the Doctor would _really_ know. That was just something she said. Something to make her seem omniscient and a little frightening. 

So, when Yaz climbed into the shower and the scalding water began to stream down her skin, she braced herself against the tiles and let her hand roam south. Her fingers had just descended past her pelvic bone — the very tips sinking through the softer flesh lying in wait beneath — when the Doctor appeared right there in the shower. Yaz’s hand snapped away and she all but stumbled backwards with a yelp. 

“Caught you,” sang the Doctor — before turning to steam.

_Just a hallucination_ , Yaz reminded herself with a racing pulse. _She doesn’t really know._

A loud knock on the bathroom door. Three harsh raps. Yaz paused; wondered if it was just another illusion. But then, “Open the door,” demanded the Doctor in a voice far more real than any she’d been haunted by thus far. “ _Now,_ Yaz.”

Cursing under her breath, Yaz turned off the shower and scrambled out into her tee and boxers before unlocking the door and opening it to a stony faced Doctor. She was still in her shirt and trousers, but the tie and vest were both missing. She barged in and Yaz stumbled backwards. 

“Did y’really think I wouldn’t know?” demanded the Doctor. 

“What are you on about? I were just taking a shower,” lied Yaz, hoping her voice sounded steadier than her quivering heart felt.

“Oh, do hurry up and figure this out, Yaz. You’re usually far cleverer than this.”

Only then, as the Doctor waited with raised brows, did Yaz begin to entertain the notion that maybe what she’d been suffering all day were not hallucinations, but projections. Had the Doctor been in her head this whole time? Had she been the one making her see and feel and hear all those maddening things; driving her to the edge and testing her limits? If so, she’d definitely found them. 

“It was you,” Yaz breathed. 

“What did I tell you, Yaz? I told you not to touch yourself.” The Doctor pinched Yaz’s chin between her fingers. “I explicitly said that, didn’t I?”

“What — what the hell is this thing?”

“It’s a psychic bridge. It allows me to use my telepathy without physical contact. In short, Yaz, yes — it was me. I was the one putting those images in your head. I was the one with my hands all over you. And I _saw_ you—” the Doctor grabbed one of Yaz’s wrists and lifted her hand— “putting your filthy bloody hands where they don’t belong.” 

“What did you think would happen?” Yaz challenged against her better judgement. “Torturing me all day and then expecting me not to…”

A molten flash behind the Doctor’s eyes incinerated the rest of Yaz’s argument and it crumbled like ash on her tongue. “I expect you to do what I _tell_ you to do. That’s how this works. I say don’t touch and you say _yes, master_.” 

“I — I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“Y’didn’t think I’d know, so that makes it okay?” The Doctor’s hold on Yaz’s wrist tightened almost to the point of pain. Yaz wasn’t proud of the thing that happened between her legs in response.

She shook her head and tried not to wince. “No. I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry you got caught, y’mean. God, what am I gonna do with you, now?” Dropping Yaz’s wrist, the Doctor took a slow step forward and Yaz took one back. “I mean, I’m gonna have to punish you, aren’t I? You haven’t exactly left me with much choice in the matter. What do you think you deserve? Hm?”

When the Doctor backed her up even further, Yaz’s back slammed into something that definitely wasn’t a wall. Something soft. Something like a body. Before she could turn, a hand reached around and wrapped itself around her neck. She could make out the Doctor’s pale forearms, her toned muscles, and knew it was just another illusion. So how did it feel so real? The hand clamped down around her throat and Yaz clawed at it in vain. She wheezed as if it were actually happening and the Doctor stood and watched her eyes water with naught more than a curious tilt of her head. 

When she presumably got bored of watching Yaz choke, the hand vanished. Yaz doubled over and gasped for breath with her hand pressed to her chest. “Fuck.”

She hadn’t understood, before, why the Doctor had been so excited about the link. Now that the twenty four hours was about up and she grasped the full extent of what it was and what it could do — that it wasn’t just hallucinations but controlled, interactive mental projections — Yaz couldn’t wait to give it a proper spin. 

Clearly, the Doctor felt the same way. 

She curled a hand around Yaz’s upper arm and dragged her out into the bedroom. When she let Yaz go, the Doctor eased herself onto the edge of the bed and leaned back on her palms. There wasn’t but a modicum of shame to the way she dragged her ravenous eyes over Yaz, over bare legs and a thin tee clinging to damp skin, and licked her lips. The Doctor must have cast another visual fantasy her way because, next thing, Yaz was picturing herself bent over the Doctor’s knee with an open palm coming down hard against her backside. 

“What you waitin’ for?” prompted the Doctor, patting her thigh.

The image dissipated from Yaz’s mind and she blinked back to reality. Somewhat trepidatious, she approached the Doctor and let her bend her over her lap. The Doctor had spanked her before — but never as a form of punishment. Typically, it was just something she did in the heat of the moment. Staring at the floorboards, Yaz braced herself with a palm flat against the ground. She chewed her lip anxiously.

“Don’t bite your lip right now ‘less you fancy cutting it open,” advised the Doctor. 

Yaz untucked her lip from between her teeth. Through the material of her boxers, she felt the Doctor squeeze her roughly — before hooking her fingers through the fabric and riding it up to better expose Yaz’s flesh. 

“Every time you flinch—” the Doctor smacked Yaz and she flinched— “I’m gonna spank you again—” the Doctor hit her again and Yaz whimpered a curse— “just a little bit harder.” She brought her hand down a third time, with a fraction more force, and Yaz couldn’t help but jolt at the sting of it. 

Every time, Yaz braced herself. Every time, she flinched. Or winced. Or gasped or whimpered or cried out. The Doctor had no qualms about striking with force, and before long the sound of her open palm colliding with Yaz’s backside was almost as affecting as the pain itself. Her involuntary reactions were helped none when the Doctor threaded her fingers through her damp hair and yanked her head back while she spanked her. Easier, figured Yaz, to enjoy the pained contortions of her face. 

“See what happens when you disobey me, Yaz? I have to hurt you.” Squeezing once more, the Doctor buried her fingertips so deep into Yaz’s flesh that Yaz could imagine five small, identical bruises forming in their wake. She released her only to spank her again. 

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” trembled Yaz.

At this point, Yaz’s skin was stinging something wicked and with the Doctor refusing to ease up — something Yaz would have denied working her up so effectively — it was all but impossible not to react. 

Then, although both the Doctor’s hands were otherwise occupied, Yaz felt a third hand reach over her shoulder and force its fingers into her mouth. So taken aback by this was she, Yaz forgot to prepare herself for the next hit and ended up starting even more violently and biting down on imaginary fingers. She felt warm breath against the nape of her neck, too close to be the Doctor, and then a guttural voice in her ear.

“Y’really are a needy little slut, aren’t you, eh?” Another loud smack. “Couldn’t even restrain yourself for a day.” Another. Yaz whined and her clipped fingernails scraped against the floorboards. The fingers in her mouth hooked around her cheek and dug in painfully.

Lowering her offending hand, the Doctor pressed her fingers against Yaz’s crotch. Yaz knew she could feel the moisture seeping through — betraying the despicable ease with which she had turned Yaz on. Peeling the material to one side, the Doctor slipped a finger inside of her and met zero resistance. Yaz bit back a groan. 

“God, you’re dripping,” the Doctor remarked. And then, in the voice she was projecting right into her ear, “You love it when I treat y’like the slut you are, don’t you? Just can’t get enough, eh?” She pulled out her finger and spanked her again. “Probably flinching on purpose.” A harsher smack and Yaz cried out. “Right?” Harsher, still. “Stop flinching, Yaz.” The next smack was so hard Yaz jerked suddenly forwards, only to feel the Doctor’s fist clench in her hair and keep her firmly in place.“Just stop.” 

Her hand came down again, again, again. It was only the fourth time, after exerting all the will she could physically muster, that Yaz managed not to flinch. The hand in her mouth withdrew. She didn’t even have time to sigh her relief before the Doctor dragged her head up by her hair that she might purr, “Good girl,” directly into her ear. “See how easy it is to be a good girl for me, Yaz?”

Yaz nodded, ignoring the way the motion caused her hair to pull at her already smarting scalp. With one final squeeze of her backside, the Doctor let go of Yaz’s hair and her head dropped like a dead weight. 

“Now, take your clothes off.” 

Sliding off the Doctor’s lap, Yaz proceeded to strip out of her shirt and underwear and made a point of avoiding glancing over her shoulder at the mirror — she didn’t even want to see the marks the Doctor’s blitz of open-palmed fury had left behind.

The Doctor kicked her boots from her feet. “Now, take mine off.” 

Licking her lips, due more to nerves than anything else, Yaz knelt before the Doctor. She kept her hands as steady as possible as they worked to unbuckle her belt, feeling the Doctor’s unfaltering gaze on her the entire time. After unhooking the clasp, the Doctor lifted her weight so that Yaz could slide her trousers down with ease. Once her socks were removed, Yaz set to work on the buttons of her shirt. It was slow going but Yaz got the sense that the Doctor was in no rush. She shrugged her shirt off and then, after Yaz leaned up to help pull her sports bra up over her head, the Doctor sat before her in nothing but her underwear. 

“You always look so good on your knees, Yaz,” she lauded, resting a hand on the back of her head. “D’you like it down there? Hm?”

Yaz nodded — because it was true. Something about kneeling for the Doctor made her skin burn and her gut coil like a spring. Was it worship or was it surrender? Sometimes she felt she toed the line. 

Simpering, the Doctor took one of Yaz’s hands and pressed it, without much force, between her thighs. Yaz’s eyebrows drifted skyward when she felt how affected the Doctor was and realised it wasn’t just her, after all. 

“This is what it does to me to see you down there,” said the Doctor, dragging Yaz’s fingers lazily along herself. “It makes me so fucking wet.”

“ _Fuck_ , Doctor.”

“Take ‘em off for me.”

Hooking her fingers over the waistband, Yaz slowly dragged the Doctor’s underwear down over lithe legs and deposited them to one side. Just like that, they both were completely naked. Yaz ached to dive between the Doctor’s thighs and make her forget that she’d ever disobeyed her; make her chant her forgiveness in the form of loud curses and throaty moans and her own name gasped back to her. She didn’t get the chance before the Doctor was rising to her feet.

“Get on the bed,” she instructed. “Be back in a mo’. Oh — and don’t let your hands wander.”

Climbing onto the bed, Yaz lay on her back as the Doctor slipped out of the room. For a moment, nothing happened. She just stared at the ceiling with her hands at her sides and waited like she’d been told. But then — prompting a startled gasp — suddenly she felt the Doctor’s hands sliding all over her. 

They explored her body, cupped her breasts, trailed along her thighs. She looked down and even though she could see them, she couldn’t figure out where they were coming from. It was like a dream. Like the most visceral wet dream she’d ever had. Her hands were everywhere — all at once. Yaz trembled and heat pooled between her legs and she was dying to touch herself. She didn’t. The Doctor, she remembered with a spike in her heart rate, was watching. 

Sure enough, when the hands fell away and the Doctor returned to the room moments later with a vibrator in hand, she nodded — satisfied. “You did well, Yaz,” she commended as she drew near. “Good girl.”

The Doctor dropped the vibrator on the mattress and climbed on top of Yaz. When her crotch brushed against her thigh, Yaz couldn’t help but grunt at the sensation of the Doctor’s own arousal smearing across her skin. But then, as the Doctor pinned Yaz’s wrists above her head and leaned down to kiss her, Yaz’s chest constricted and she thought, _please don’t_.

Halfway to her lips, the Doctor froze. Yaz frowned when she felt the hold on her wrists loosen and saw the Doctor lean back with a hybrid of confusion and — if she wasn’t mistaken — hurt adorning her features.

“Why not?” asked the Doctor.

“What?”

“Why not kiss you?”

“You _heard_ that?” Had the Doctor been able to hear all of her thoughts? 

“No, not all of them,” the Doctor said by way of answering a question she hadn’t posed out loud, “but that one were pretty bloody loud, Yaz. I don’t understand — we always kiss.”

Yaz squirmed a little beneath the Doctor. “I just — I just don’t like it when you’re tender. It makes me feel — I mean, it kinda makes this thing feel like more than just sex,” Yaz explained quietly. “And that’s all this is, right?” As that last question leapt from her tongue, so too did her heart leap and hover in the air as it anticipated the Doctor’s response. If you’d have asked her, she wouldn’t have called it hope. That didn’t mean that's not what it was.

Certainly, when the Doctor replied with a muttered, “Right,” Yaz’s hovering heart plummeted and crash landed in unknown depths with an explosion that left tendrils of smoke and regret climbing up her throat. “You should’ve told me. All this time, I’ve been—”

“It’s fine, Doctor. I mean, you’re a bloody amazing kisser. Seriously,” Yaz hailed with a light laugh, “it’s kind of annoying how good you are at everything you do.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Try to soften the blow. I don’t care that you don’t want to kiss me, Yaz. Really,” insisted the Doctor. Except the proclamation came out defensive and unnecessarily harsh. “Why don’t you just show me how you want it to be?”

“Show you?”

“Bridges go two ways, Yaz,” said the Doctor, jutting her chin towards Yaz’s neck. “Granted, y’won’t be able to do as much as I can with it ‘cause you’re not naturally telepathic — but if you focus on that presence in your head and push back against it with thoughts or images of your own, I should be able to see them. So, just show me, yeah? And then, next time, we can avoid any confusion.” 

Trying not to let the Doctor’s suddenly moody affectation dampen her, Yaz heeded her advice and closed her eyes. She ran through a mental recall and a flurry of visuals sprang to mind; some of things they had already done and some that were simply fantasies as yet to be totally explored. In none of them was the Doctor ever careful or soft or kind. In all of them, Yaz was at her total mercy — sometimes needy and compliant, sometimes bratty and defiant, and sometimes entirely bound and gagged and unable to do anything but let the Doctor have her way with her. Once she was through, Yaz opened her eyes.

Still and silent, the Doctor stared down at Yaz with an unreadable expression on her face. Yaz didn’t know it to name it, but she had enough sense to be appropriately frightened by it. Indeed, it was but a handful of seconds later that the Doctor surged suddenly forwards and wrapped both her hands around Yaz’s throat. 

“So, you wanna be used, Yaz? You want me to treat you like a whore? Torture you?” she growled viciously, spitting the words right into Yaz’s face and tightening her grip until Yaz’s every breath felt like sandpaper. This. This was what Yaz needed. Despite appearances, it just felt safer this way. For her heart, at any rate. Her body might have begged to differ. “With _pleasure._ ”

The Doctor let her go but, when she tried to reach for her throat reflexively, Yaz found that she couldn’t move her arms. She turned her head. Two hands pinned her wrists to the bed at either side of her — hands attached to arms attached to another projection of the Doctor kneeling behind her head and grinning corruptly. When two hands wrapped around her ankles, she looked down to find that there was another one leaning over the footboard and holding her legs down. Three Doctors. Each of them as real as the other. Undoubtedly, these manifestations were getting stronger.

“Jesus Christ,” Yaz breathed. She tested their hold on her; tried to wriggle her arms free. The hold on her wrists tightened and Yaz felt fingernails digging sharply into her skin. For figments of her imagination, they certainly had a lot of strength. 

Straddling her thigh, the real Doctor — Yaz hoped she was real, at any rate — picked up the vibrator. She switched it on and the sound of buzzing filled the room. Meeting Yaz’s eye, the Doctor leaned over her and held the silicone head to one of her nipples. Yaz groaned as it stimulated the sensitive nerves there and strained against the hold on her limbs. The Doctor must have honed in on that sensation and amplified it because, next thing, Yaz felt every inch of her skin ignite beneath a similarly unhinging sensation and her loudest moan yet tore from her lungs as her back arched off the bed.

“ _Doctor_ — fuckfuck _fuck_.”

As Yaz writhed vehemently beneath an already intense pleasure, the likes of which she’d never before known, the Doctor upped the ante. Cool hands ran across her whole body, joined next by countless lips and tongues and teeth unseen and there were so many sensations going on all at once that she didn’t know which to focus on or which was the most wonderfully devastating.

She canted against the Doctor’s thigh only to feel a pair of hands slam her back down and she couldn’t say if the hands who did it were real or imagined and she also couldn’t say that she cared very much either way. Yaz was on a higher plane and still ascending. 

The Doctor slapped her cheek and Yaz’s eyes flew open. “Keep ‘em open.”

Yaz looked around. The two of them were alone again. The Doctor scaled back the augmented pleasure and Yaz remembered to breathe. Her heart was pounding berserkly — chest heaving as if she’d just come up for air after being held under for an age by a monstrous, black wave. 

“God, this is—”

“Be quiet, Yaz.” The Doctor switched the vibrator to her other nipple and bent down to pinch the skin of Yaz’s neck between her teeth. When she turned up the setting on the vibrator, Yaz moaned against the lips at her throat and the Doctor sucked with added zeal. She wanted to leave her mark, it seemed.

“Doctor,” panted Yaz, “please.”

Running her tongue from her neck to her jaw and then up the side of her face, the Doctor’s mouth came to a stop over Yaz’s ear. “What do you want, Yaz? You want me to fuck you?” She sat up and nodded her head over her shoulder. “Like that?”

Yaz followed the gesture. She was greeted with a sight so obscenely perverted she couldn’t help but swear her bewilderment. There, bent over the side of the desk, she watched herself being rammed into from behind by the Doctor in a scene reminiscent of many of their previous encounters. She watched the Doctor smack her backside before turning to her with a blisteringly debauched snarl. “Or, like that?” she said, and tilted her head towards the other side of the room. Again, Yaz turned her head. This time, she saw the Doctor pinning her to the wall — one hand working furiously between her thighs and the other pulling her hair. 

“Or, maybe like this.” The Doctor dragged the vibrator across the flat of her stomach until the head came to rest over her clit. Yaz released a strangled moan; body tensing up and eyelids fluttering closed. The Doctor slapped her cheek. “I told you to keep your eyes open. I want you to see this.” 

Forcing herself to comply, Yaz opened her eyes — just in time to see two brown arms come up from behind the Doctor and wrap themselves around her. The Doctor, still holding the vibrator against Yaz, sent her a maniacal grin. It was her. It was Yaz. 

“What the fuck?”

Yaz watched herself kiss the Doctor’s neck; watched through the dizzy haze of her own unrestrained pleasure as her likeness’ hands roamed over the Doctor’s body and then dipped between her thighs. The Doctor moaned and Yaz tried to move but, once again, she was being pinned down by hands that weren’t really there. Prompting a shameless cry of distress, the Doctor removed the vibrator from Yaz’s clit. Yaz was left with no choice but to witness her other self hold it against the Doctor. The Doctor’s jaw hung open and she screwed her eyes shut, groaning loudly.

“Fuck — _Doctor,”_ cried Yaz.

Realistically, she knew the Doctor was only holding the toy to herself and that it was insane to be jealous of an apparition — but hell, if her blood wasn’t boiling. Her imposter’s hand reached up and cupped the Doctor’s breast, teased a nipple between her fingers; groped with abandon. 

“Oh, you’re so good, Yaz,” moaned the Doctor. “You’re such a good girl.” 

Yaz struggled further against the hands clamped around her wrists but they refused to give. “Doctor, please.” 

“What, Yaz? I’m a little busy,” snapped the Doctor. 

Yaz’s mirror image smirked at her and she felt an impossibly black anger bloom in the cavern of her chest. Then, somehow crueller than everything else, she watched herself cup the Doctor’s face and turn her head around — only to capture her in a deep, wet, breathy kiss. The Doctor hummed her unfettered delight as not-Yaz continued to tease her clit with the vibrator. Their tongues slid over one another, bodies pressed flush; paying no mind to how Yaz thrashed fruitlessly before them. 

Frustrated, Yaz hit her head against the mattress in defeat. “Fuck you.” 

The Doctor went still. Yaz realised only too late what she’d said. Pulse deafening, Yaz glanced down just as the Doctor clicked off the vibrator and her double vanished. Predatory, the Doctor climbed back over Yaz’s body and Yaz was terrified and aroused and angry and desperate and she couldn’t decide which to centre on when the Doctor wrapped her hands around her throat and snarled, “What did you say to me?”

“Nothing, I—”

Her hands squeezed tighter still and Yaz gasped. 

“I said, what did you say to me?”

When it became apparent that the Doctor wasn’t going to ease off until Yaz repeated herself, she gave up resisting and wheezed, “Fu — fuck you.” 

The Doctor loosened her grip and, while Yaz choked back the oxygen she’d been denied, lowered herself over Yaz so that her lips ghosted against her own when she next spoke. “If you insist.” Yaz was still recovering when she felt the Doctor pick up her hand and guide it between her thighs. Her fingers were welcomed by an abundance of silken heat. “Go on — do the only thing you’re any good at. Fuck me.” 

Yaz’s finger plunged effortlessly inside the Doctor. She licked her lips, watching her own hand begin to work up to an ardent pace and relishing in every slick sound her fingers made when she drove them back in. 

Palm slamming against the Doctor’s clit with every thrust, Yaz allowed her free hand to knead the Doctor’s breast. The Doctor covered it with her own; pressed against it to invoke rougher handling. By the time Yaz added a third finger, the Doctor was virtually riding her hand and gasping with every rock of her hips. Idly, Yaz mused that she could lie there and soak in the brilliance of the Doctor’s pornographic euphoria for a lifetime. There was nothing in the universe like it; no place so easy to lose oneself.

“Faster, Yaz,” urged the Doctor, squeezing Yaz’s fingers tighter around the nub of a nipple. 

Yaz jerked the nipple sharply to one side and happily indulged the Doctor’s request for an accelerated pace. Blindly, the Doctor reached to the side, picked up the vibrator, and switched it on. She reached behind her to hold the head to Yaz’s clit, inspiring a most unchaste noise to climb up Yaz’s throat. Yaz’s hand was working so rapidly between the Doctor’s thighs that her muscles burned with it — and yet she didn’t slow. 

In fact, when the Doctor switched the vibrator up to its next setting, Yaz couldn’t be sure she didn’t break some kind of record with how her fingers responded in kind. She curled them inside the Doctor, striking her walls in a manner that elicited further rapturous moans. And then they were back. The hands, the open mouths; the magnified sensations of every slight touch raging like a forest fire across the expanse of her burning body. Yaz felt a tongue run up the inside of her thigh, teeth nibbling at her earlobe or sinking into the crook of her neck, fingers climbing into her mouth and twisting her nipples and pulling her hair. 

“Fuck — oh, my _god,_ ” whined Yaz. “ _Doctor_.”

One of the hands gripped her jaw — maybe it was really the Doctor’s — and forced her to look up at her; to lock eyes with her while they fucked one another. Yaz had never dreamed that pleasure like this could exist; had never known her heart could beat so furiously without giving out. And then, just as she thought how close she was to coming, it all stopped. She whimpered when the Doctor clicked off the vibrator.

“You’re not coming without my permission,” the Doctor snarled, “and you’re definitely not coming before me. Take out your hand.” 

Yaz withdrew her fingers, every inch coated with the Doctor’s thick, tangy sap. She licked them clean with unbroken eye contact. The Doctor ground her jaw, affording Yaz the very same look she usually sported seconds before kissing her. But there was no kiss this time. Instead, she shuffled further along Yaz until she was kneeling right in front of her face.

“Now, be a good little slut and have a proper taste, yeah?”

Yaz didn’t need to be told twice. With one of the Doctor’s hands gripping her by her hair, Yaz lifted her head and went in for the kill. She ate the Doctor with bravo, with insatiable appetite; with delighted hums and moans which prompted the Doctor to roll her hips and ride Yaz’s face faster. 

Each of the Doctor’s respondent noises, all of them husky and deep, was music to Yaz’s ears. Between the Doctor’s thighs was, undoubtedly, her favourite place to be. 

Soon, the Doctor was sighing Yaz’s name and Yaz was being groped by hands she couldn’t see for her proximity to the Doctor’s cunt. The rough, tactless fondling of her defenceless body spurred Yaz on an untold degree. She lapped at the Doctor with greedy zeal, working her closer and closer to her climax until she was moaning unabashedly above her and rocking so eagerly Yaz could feel the bed shaking. 

“ _God_ , Yaz — _fuck_ , I’m so close,” the Doctor announced hoarsely. “Don’t you dare fucking stop. Keep going, Yaz. Keep going.”

Yaz harboured no intentions of stopping. She knew when the Doctor was seconds from release because she yanked her hair painfully and because the hands on her body became harsher, clumsier, more vicious. Phantom fingernails raked like talons over her skin. If they were real, she might have bled. Yaz let them rouse her; let the pain drive her tongue to an unquenchable pace. Rapacious between the Doctor’s thighs, Yaz gripped her hips and with a final flurry of directed, single-minded licks, the Doctor unspooled like yarn.

She came and all else fell away save the two of them and the orgasm flooding through the Doctor’s body and the way she threw her head back and clenched around Yaz and held her face against her. Impossibly, Yaz felt her pleasure, too. An imitation of it, anyway. Clearly not as intense as the Doctor’s. Still, it was enough to have her moaning right alongside the Doctor when it happened — directly into wet, trembling heat. 

When it was over, and Yaz’s tongue had finally slowed to a stop, the Doctor slumped over Yaz. Yaz swiped her tongue over her lips and waited for the Doctor to catch her breath and return to her body. It was a long minute before she rolled off her.

Unrestrained for the first time in a while, Yaz sat upright. “Did I just…”

“No,” the Doctor shook her head, “just thought I’d share a little. You worked for it.” 

Yaz blew out her cheeks. “Fuck, that was hot.” She pulled a lip between her teeth and eyed the Doctor’s sweaty, breathless form. “You’re so fucking hot when you come.” 

The Doctor gave Yaz a strange look; dissecting. Before Yaz could think to backpedal, she felt a sudden pressure at her back. A tongue running down her neck. Hands sliding across her abs. Used to it by now, Yaz leaned into the touch with a soft curse. The Doctor picked up the vibrator as foreign hands slid down her arms, curled around her wrists, and then pinned them together behind her back. The tongue at her throat was swapped out for teeth and Yaz grunted. 

“Spread your legs,” growled the voice in her ear. 

Yaz spread her legs. 

The Doctor knelt between them and clicked the vibrator on, leering down at her wolfishly. The moment the vibrator made contact with her clit, the Doctor swept forwards and attached herself to Yaz’s neck. Just like that, there were two mouths, two tongues, two sets of teeth at her throat and an ungodly pressure between her thighs. With an unashamedly vocal moan, Yaz tilted her head back and went dizzy at the sight of two Doctors lavishing her skin with wet kisses and puncturing bites. The pressure between her legs built and built and again the Doctor broadened its scope until her every nerve throbbed, sparked; singed her skin so severely she thought she might catch fire.

The pleasure itself was painful. It was so overwhelming Yaz had tears in her eyes and still, it didn’t stop. One of the Doctors bit the tip of her ear and the other groped her breast and both of them were breathing so heavily it almost sounded like snarling. Yaz felt herself grow wetter, needier. She pressed her back against the bare chest behind her and let her head loll back onto the shoulder. The hands around her wrists twisted and she yelped out in pain — though she couldn’t be sure she hadn’t been doing that the entire time. 

Yaz just about managed to grasp at coherence long enough to whine a strangled, “Doctor, I — I’m _so_ close.”

Detaching from the hollow of her throat, the Doctor pulled back and withdrew the vibrator. All at once, Yaz’s every nerve was extinguished and she was left with a dull throbbing between her thighs and one mouth still doting on her neck. 

“Doctor—”

“Beg me for it.”

Teeth nibbled at her earlobe and again her wrists were subject to another harsh twist and Yaz pursed her lips to mute an agonised moan. “Please let me come, Doctor,” she begged. “Please, I just — I just wanna come for you. I need it. _Fuck,_ I need it. I’ll do anything if you just let me come.”

The Doctor popped a sculpted brow. “Anything?”

“Anything,” blurted Yaz without shame. “Anything you want — fuck. Just please let me come.”

“Hm.” The Doctor tapped the vibrator against her palm as she thought. When an epiphany struck, the vibrator stilled. She levelled Yaz with an amoral smirk. “Kiss me.”

Yaz’s fizzled mind took a beat longer than usual to process. “What?”

“She means me,” the voice in her ear sneered. Yaz looked up at her and wondered if the Doctor intentionally made her eyes look so unavoidably black. “You’re gonna come with my tongue in your mouth or you’re not gonna come at all. And don’t worry — I won’t be tender.” 

Dying for release as she was, Yaz would have done anything to convince the Doctor to let her come — as unusual a request as this was. So, when the Doctor’s double leaned in, Yaz let her kiss her. Her tongue forced its way into Yaz’s mouth and she put a hand at the back of her head to restrict her ability to pull away. 

The sensations were all astoundingly realistic, right down to the coolness of the Doctor’s lips and how bruising her firmness, and yet it didn’t quite taste like the Doctor. She figured the Doctor wouldn’t know what she tasted like and as such wouldn’t be able to project that — but, weirdly, the kiss felt a little lacking because of it. Yaz almost wished it were the real Doctor instead; a thought she didn’t understand. 

“It’s because you’re not afraid of kissing, Yaz,” interjected the Doctor from between her legs, “you’re afraid of your own bloody feelings.”

“What?” Yaz murmured against lips that refused to release her. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop. Keep going.”

At the recommencement of loud buzzing, Yaz closed her eyes to the kiss and braced herself. Still, when the head of the vibrator returned to her clit, Yaz couldn’t help but gasp around the tongue in her mouth. The Doctor took advantage of the moment; burying her teeth into her bottom lip without a sliver of mercy. Yaz cried out; half wondered if she’d be left with a split lip before remembering it wasn’t even real. 

Yaz could feel the Doctor’s eyes on her as she kissed this version of herself only she could see and strained against her hold and moaned into her parted lips. She wondered if it was getting her off — or if there was another reason for this entirely. As Yaz edged ever closer to the edge, she struggled to reciprocate the kiss in any effectual way. Instead, the Doctor kissed her and Yaz just let her do it; groaning through the motions as her own pleasure intensified in other areas of her body. 

“Doctor — I’m gonna come,” she panted, her lower lip caught between the Doctor’s teeth. “Fuck, Doctor — please don’t—”

“Just shut up and kiss me.” 

The Doctor jammed her tongue between Yaz’s teeth with her fingers knotted in her hair. In the world of reality, the other Doctor turned the setting on the vibrator up to maximum and ducked a head to Yaz’s chest to suck a nipple. Moments later — with one tongue in her mouth and another at her nipple and suddenly legions more running along every area of her skin — Yaz came. She came with her arms behind her back, with the sensations of the vibrator exploding not just in one spot but from seemingly everywhere. Where there were nerves, there was pleasure. Where there was pleasure, there was pain. 

Her every muscle seized up and she might have lurched forward were she not so tightly restrained. The Doctor only increased the pressure. The kiss deepened, she felt teeth at the nub of her nipple; the vibrator bore down heavier against her clit. Her orgasm was an intense onslaught of nerves alight and sensations untold. The Doctor honed in on the source of her pleasure and pressed it between the lens of a magnifying glass until it was blinding white behind Yaz’s eyes. 

It was impossible to describe and impossible for her to react to in any way other than to moan so loud it was proximate to a scream — a fact she would avidly deny were anyone to ask.

The Doctor refused to let her go — refused to scale her bombardment back — until Yaz had emerged in her entirety from the clutches of all-entombing exaltation. The opaque brume of severe ecstasy cleared wisp by wisp until cloud nine burst and she plummeted back down to earth. At once, the lips on her own disappeared and her arms were freed from their inflexible hold. The Doctor dropped the vibrator on the bed. 

Out of breath and still a little bit out of her head, Yaz collapsed backwards on the bed — stuck fast to the sheets with her own perspiration. 

Sitting beside her with her knees pulled up to her chest, the Doctor peered down at her. “You all right?” Always. She always made sure Yaz was okay afterwards. 

_“More_ than all right, believe me,” rasped Yaz — throat sore from both her endless moans and from the Doctor’s vice-like grip. “How — bloody hell, how were any of that even possible? Think you’ve just ruined all other sex for me for the rest of my life.” 

“Visual and physical sensations all come from the brain,” the Doctor explained simply. She slipped off the bed and rounded it to retrieve her clothes. As she slid her trousers on, she said, “Pleasure, pain, the lot. Takes quite a bit of practice, but if y’know what you’re doing, then you can engineer the trip of a lifetime and make it feel completely lifelike.”

“But I physically couldn’t move?”

“If I can trick your brain into believing you’re restrained, your body believes it, too.”

“Oh. S’pose that makes sense.” Yaz watched the Doctor buckle her belt and sat up. “Not staying tonight?”

“You don’t do tender, Yaz, remember?” The Doctor pulled her shirt on, hovering by the bed without buttoning up. “Turn around a sec.”

When Yaz turned her head, the Doctor peeled the link off the back of her neck and it came free with a mild sting. Just like that, the nesting pressure inside her mind — the one Yaz had all but forgotten to notice — was suddenly gone. Her thoughts were her own once more. She turned back to face the Doctor, 

“Well, yeah, but—”

“But what?” asked the Doctor. She sounded tired; exasperated. “Y’made it pretty clear what you want from me, Yaz. I gave it to you, didn’t I? Or did you want me to fuck you again? Might have it in me again if y’just give me a minute.” 

“Doctor—” Yaz scoffed— “you know full well that isn’t what I meant.” 

The Doctor shrugged. “Do I?”

“You _know_ you do. And since we’re apparently getting into it, what were all that about before — when you said I’m afraid of my own feelings? What’s that supposed to mean?” Yaz had shelved it at the time given how perilously close to her own zenith she had been. Now that she was returning to some semblance of clarity, however, the words climbed back to the surface with heels and pickaxes finding purchase in the forefront of her mind. 

“Oh, just forget it, Yaz,” grumbled the Doctor, sitting with her back to Yaz to lace her boots back up. 

“No, seriously.” Yaz climbed out of bed and pulled her boxers and T-shirt back on, still smoothing the latter down as she came to a stop in front of the Doctor. “Tell me what you meant.”

Sighing at her boots, the Doctor straightened up and looked at Yaz. “When’s the last time anyone was careful with you, Yaz? When’s the last time you let anybody touch you without hurting you or tying you down or calling you names?”

Yaz laughed mirthlessly. “Sorry — are you kinkshaming me now?”

The Doctor baulked. “No, that’s — just answer the question.”

“Well, I dunno,” shrugged Yaz.

“Is that because you can’t remember, or because it’s never happened?” wondered the Doctor, rising to her feet and buttoning herself up.

“Why does it matter?”

When the Doctor replied, she did so without looking up from the hands working their way through her buttons; she did so with her hair falling like curtains around her face. “It matters, Yaz, because you treat sex like self harm—” finally, the Doctor looked up— “and I don’t wanna keep being the blade you use.” 

_“What?”_ Yaz turned her palms skyward; incredulous. “Doctor, you’re way, way off. That’s _insane._ I don’t do this ‘cause I hate myself; I do it because it’s fun. Because I like it.” 

“I like it, too, Yaz,” insisted the Doctor, taking a step closer. “I like it a lot. But I worry that you’ve never known a kind touch before; that you won’t let yourself know that because you feel like you’re not worthy of it. And that’s awful. Even though it can be excellent to indulge in a little masochism every once in a while — which it is, it’s excellent — it’s imperative that you not let it get in the way of how you see yourself or how you let others treat you. Sex can be so many things, Yaz. Maybe I can show you sometime.” 

Yaz was at a loss. In the past, she’d opened up to the Doctor about her previous issues with self-worth and her occasionally floundering mental health. She was beginning to wonder if that was a mistake. “Doctor, just ‘cause we screw every now and again, that doesn’t mean you—”

“Why don’t you really want to kiss me? Have you ever actually asked yourself that question?” interrupted the Doctor. She didn’t sound angry. If anything, she sounded sad. 

Yaz searched the Doctor. It was a few seconds before she came back with a quiet, “I told you.” 

“Yeah, it makes the sex feel like more. Fine,” granted the Doctor. “Why does that bother you?”

“Wh — because—” Yaz grasped for an answer where there were none to be found. 

“Because you want it to be more?”

Yaz’s eyes went wide and she took a step back. “No! No, obviously not,” she denied with a little more force than was probably necessary. “You’re my friend. I don’t — I’m not—”

“Let me kiss you.”

Yaz choked on the bones of whatever words she’d been about to speak and the Doctor looked to her with all the patience of a being whose time was not running short any time soon; whose seconds didn’t dwindle significantly the longer Yaz stood there and stared at her with a question she didn’t know how to word percolating slowly in the back of her mouth. When she croaked out a feeble, “Excuse me?” the Doctor deflated a little. Wrong question. 

“Let me kiss you, Yaz. Right now,” repeated the Doctor. The step she took towards Yaz was so small it might as well have been a step in the wrong direction. “If you don’t feel anythin’, if it does nothin’ for you — fine. We can just carry on like this. We can even stop, if y’like, and I won’t bring it up again.” 

“Why do you want to kiss me?” It still didn’t quite taste like the right question, but it was at least a good deal warmer than last time. 

The Doctor pursed her lips with a sympathetic tilt to her brow. “Why d’you think?” She lifted a tentative hand to Yaz’s cheek, hovering millimetres from contact to search Yaz for signs of reluctance. When Yaz offered none, she let her palm find purchase on smooth skin. “I told you, Yaz. I told you ages ago. Remember?”

The dream.

The dream that wasn’t a dream. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” The Doctor lowered her eyes. “Oh.” 

Yaz swallowed so dryly she figured the Doctor must have heard it. She’d never before let herself entertain any ideas about their arrangement being anything but casual; had all but forced herself into a state of disillusionment regarding the Doctor’s affections. Could it have been that the very reason she was so averse to introducing feelings to their trysts was because she was terrified of how much she really wanted that? 

And now here the Doctor stood, offering it to her on a silver platter. 

Her eyes fell over the Doctor’s mouth. She paused. Those lips — her greatest foe. Or, maybe not. Maybe the opposite was closer to the truth. Yaz raised her gaze and afforded the Doctor the most minute of nods.

The Doctor’s surprise was evident in the lift of her brow. With a barely there smile, she let the hand on Yaz’s cheek drift to her neck — not to choke or to bruise or to harm, but to gently guide her forwards. Then, they were both leaning in. Yaz’s eyelids drew closed the instant their lips brushed together. It didn’t make sense for the kiss to be as laden with nerves as it was. They’d done it a thousand times before, after all. 

Except this one was weighed down with a heavy confession exchanging lips. It was soft, and it was restrained — but the magnitude of it was stifling. Yaz’s hands came to rest on the Doctor’s hips and the Doctor took that as an incentive to deepen their kiss. As their tongues brushed over one another, Yaz felt something give. A wall built upon the unsteady foundation of a lie — crumbling (as it was forever destined to do). And now, the Doctor tasted like the truth. The Doctor tasted like a quiet epiphany, a light switched on; she tasted golden yellow like Yaz’s favourite dreams.

Lips and tongues disentangled and Yaz’s forehead rested against the Doctor’s. The Doctor’s hands still cradled her face and she glanced at Yaz with an anxious disposition — waiting. Just waiting. 

Whatever happened going forwards, they were surely standing atop the irreparable ruins of whatever came before. Because that was so much more than just a kiss. No, that was an atom bomb to their old normal. Either they would build a new one within the crater it left behind, or they would perish in the aftermath.

“You love me?” trembled Yaz.

And there it was. The right question. 

The Doctor chuckled softly, thumb stroking the side of Yaz’s face. “Deeply, is the word I believe I used.” 

An unsanctioned tear sprang from the corner of Yaz’s eye and the Doctor frowned. She caught it with the pad of her thumb and stared at it as if it were an enigma. Her face fell. “Oh,” she mumbled, rubbing the moisture against her index finger as a pocket of stars behind her eyes flickered out one by one. “You don’t feel the same, do you? I really thought — God, I’m sorry, Yaz. Really, I am. I never—”

Yaz sought out the Doctor’s lips again.

For the millionth time.

For the second time, it felt like. 

She allowed the Doctor her split second of shock and she allowed her a successive split second of unbridled glee and, when she was done grinning against Yaz’s mouth, she allowed her to take the lead. And even though she did, it was tender. It was kind. It was everything Yaz had been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope it's coming across that all of this is consensual btw but?? if u think i ought to change my tags or put some warnings in lmk


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